THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 

FOR  THE 
ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


THE  WORKS  OF 
EUGENE  FIELD 

Vol.  II 


m 

it 


THE  WRITINGS  IN 
PROSE  AND  VERSE 
OF  EUGENE  FIELD 


A  LITTLE 
OF  PROFIT 


sllivn/nD  .W 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
SONSJNEW  YORKJ  J903 


'How  cold  yofl^^^^^^Hfeht,"  said  Barbara 
Drawn  fry  W.  Gran  .JL- 


THE  WRITINGS  IN 
PROSE  AND  VERSE 
OF  EUGENE  FIELD 


A  LITTLE  BOOK 
OF  PROFITABLE 
TALES    &    $    %    & 


Copyright,  1889,  by 
EUGENE  FIELD. 


TO  MY  SEVEREST  CRITIC, 
MY  MOST  LOYAL  ADMIRER, 
AND  MY  ONLY  DAUGHTER, 
MARY  FRENCH  FIELD,  THIS 
LITTLE  BOOK  OF  PROFIT 
ABLE  TALES  IS  AFFECTION 
ATELY  DEDICATED.  E.  F. 


INTRODUCTION 


I  HAVE  never  read  a  poem  by  Mr.  Field 
without  feeling  personally  drawn  to  the 
author.  Long  after  I  had  known  him  as  a 
poet,  I  found  that  he  had  written  in  prose 
little  scraps  or  long  essays,  which  had  at 
tracted  me  in  just  the  same  way,  when  I  had 
met  with  them  in  the  newspapers,  although 
I  had  not  known  who  the  author  was. 

All  that  he  writes  indeed  is  quite  free  from 
the  conventionalisms  to  which  authorship  as 
a  profession  is  sadly  liable.  Because  he  is 
free  from  them,  you  read  his  poems  or  you 
read  his  prose,  and  are  affected  as  if  you  met 
him.  If  you  were  riding  in  a  Pullman  car 
with  him,  or  if  you  were  talking  with  him  at 
breakfast  over  your  coffee,  he  would  say  just 
such  things  in  just  this  way.  If  he  had  any 


INTRODUCTION 

art,  it  was  the  art  of  concealing  art.  But  I  do 
not  think  that  he  thought  much  of  art.  I  do 
not  think  that  he  cared  much  for  what  people 
say  about  criticism  or  style.  He  wrote  as 
he  felt,  or  as  he  thought,  without  troubling 
himself  much  about  method.  It  is  this  sim 
plicity,  or  what  it  is  the  fashion  of  the  day  to 
call  frankness,  which  gives  a  singular  charm 
to  his  writing. 

EDWARD  E.  HALE. 


in  rt)i£  Hittie 


PAGE 

THE  FIRST  CHRISTMAS  TREE i 

THE  SYMBOL  AND  THE  SAINT 13 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  PRINCE 31 

THE  MOUSE  AND  THE  MOONBEAM 51 

THE  DIVELL'S  CHRYSTMASS 75 

THE  MOUNTAIN  AND  THE  SEA 87 

THE  ROBIN  AND  THE  VIOLET 95 

THE  OAK-TREE  AND  THE  IVY       105 

MARGARET:  A  PEARL 115 

THE  SPRINGTIME 135 

RODOLPH  AND  HIS  KlNG 147 

THE  HAMPSHIRE  HILLS 157 

EZRA'S  THANKSGIVIN'  OUT  WEST 169 

LUDWIG  AND  ELOISE 187 

FIDO'S  LITTLE  FRIEND 197 

THE  OLD  MAN 215 

BILL,  THE  LOKIL  EDITOR 225 

THE  LITTLE  YALLER  BABY 235 

THE  CYCLOPEEDY 247 

DOCK  STEBBINS 261 

THE  FAIRIES  OF  PESTH 273 

IX 


THE   FIRST  CHRISTMAS  TREE 


NCE  upon  a  time  the  forest  was  in 
a  great  commotion.  Early  in  the 
evening  the  wise  old  cedars  had 
shaken  their  heads  ominously  and  predicted 
strange  things.  They  had  lived  in  the  for 
est  many,  many  years;  but  never  had  they 
seen  such  marvellous  sights  as  were  to  be 
seen  now  in  the  sky,  and  upon  the  hills, 
and  in  the  distant  village. 

"Pray  tell  us  what  you  see,"  pleaded  a 
little  vine;  "  we  who  are  not  as  tall  as  you 
can  behold  none  of  these  wonderful  things. 
Describe  them  to  us,  that  we  may  enjoy 
them  with  you." 

"  I  am  filled  with  such  amazement,"  said 
one  of  the  cedars,  "  that  I  can  hardly  speak. 
The  whole  sky  seems  to  be  aflame,  and 
the  stars  appear  to  be  dancing  among  the 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

clouds;  angels  walk  down  from  heaven  to 
the  earth,  and  enter  the  village  or  talk  with 
the  shepherds  upon  the  hills." 

The  vine  listened  in  mute  astonishment. 
Such  things  never  before  had  happened. 
The  vine  trembled  with  excitement.  Its 
nearest  neighbor  was  a  tiny  tree,  so  small  it 
scarcely  ever  was  noticed;  yet  it  was  a 
very  beautiful  little  tree,  and  the  vines  and 
ferns  and  mosses  and  other  humble  residents 
of  the  forest  loved  it  dearly. 

"How  I  should  like  to  see  the  angels!" 
sighed  the  little  tree,  "and  how  I  should 
like  to  see  the  stars  dancing  among  the 
clouds!  It  must  be  very  beautiful." 

As  the  vine  and  the  little  tree  talked  of 
these  things,  the  cedars  watched  with  in 
creasing  interest  the  wonderful  scenes  over 
and  beyond  the  confines  of  the  forest. 
Presently  they  thought  they  heard  music, 
and  they  were  not  mistaken,  for  soon  the 
whole  air  was  full  of  the  sweetest  harmonies 
ever  heard  upon  earth. 

"What  beautiful  music!"  cried  the  little 
tree.  "  I  wonder  whence  it  comes." 

"The  angels  are  singing,"  said  a  cedar; 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

"for  none  but  angels  could  make  such 
sweet  music." 

"  But  the  stars  are  singing,  too,"  said  an 
other  cedar;  "yes,  and  the  shepherds  on 
the  hills  join  in  the  song,  and  what  a 
strangely  glorious  song  it  is!" 

The  trees  listened  to  the  singing,  but 
they  did  not  understand  its  meaning:  it 
seemed  to  be  an  anthem,  and  it  was  of  a 
Child  that  had  been  born ;  but  further  than 
this  they  did  not  understand.  The  strange 
and  glorious  song  continued  all  the  night; 
and  all  that  night  the  angels  walked  to  and 
fro,  and  the  shepherd-folk  talked  with  the 
angels,  and  the  stars  danced  and  carolled 
in  high  heaven.  And  it  was  nearly  morn 
ing  when  the  cedars  cried  out,  "They  are 
coming  to  the  forest!  the  angels  are  com 
ing  to  the  forest!"  And,  surely  enough, 
this  was  true.  The  vine  and  the  little  tree 
were  very  terrified,  and  they  begged  their 
older  and  stronger  neighbors  to  protect 
them  from  harm.  But  the  cedars  were  too 
busy  with  their  own  fears  to  pay  any  heed 
to  the  faint  pleadings  of  the  humble  vine 
and  the  little  tree.  The  angels  came  into 

3 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

the  forest,  singing  the  same  glorious  an 
them  about  the  Child,  and  the  stars  sang 
in  chorus  with  them,  until  every  part  of 
the  woods  rang  with  echoes  of  that  won 
drous  song.  There  was  nothing  in  the  ap 
pearance  of  this  angel  host  to  inspire  fear; 
they  were  clad  all  in  white,  and  there  were 
crowns  upon  their  fair  heads,  and  golden 
harps  in  their  hands;  love,  hope,  charity, 
compassion,  and  joy  beamed  from  their 
beautiful  faces,  and  their  presence  seemed 
to  fill  the  forest  with  a  divine  peace.  The 
angels  came  through  the  forest  to  where  the 
little  tree  stood,  and  gathering  around  it, 
they  touched  it  with  their  hands,  and  kissed 
its  little  branches,  and  sang  even  more 
sweetly  than  before.  And  their  song  was 
about  the  Child,  the  Child,  the  Child  that 
had  been  born.  Then  the  stars  came  down 
from  the  skies  and  danced  and  hung  upon 
the  branches  of  the  tree,  and  they,  too,  sang 
that  song, — the  song  of  the  Child.  And 
all  the  other  trees  and  the  vines  and  the 
ferns  and  the  mosses  beheld  in  wonder; 
nor  could  they  understand  why  all  these 
things  were  being  done,  and  why  this  ex- 

4 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

ceeding  honor  should  be  shown  the  little 
tree. 

When  the  morning  came  the  angels  left 
the  forest, —  all  but  one  angel,  who  remained 
behind  and  lingered  near  the  little  tree. 
Then  a  cedar  asked:  ''Why  do  you  tarry 
with  us,  holy  angel?"  And  the  angel  an 
swered:  "I  stay  to  guard  this  little  tree,  for 
it  is  sacred,  and  no  harm  shall  come  to  it." 

The  little  tree  felt  quite  relieved  by  this 
assurance,  and  it  held  up  its  head  more 
confidently  than  ever  before.  And  how  it 
thrived  and  grew,  and  waxed  in  strength 
and  beauty!  The  cedars  said  they  never 
had  seen  the  like.  The  sun  seemed  to  lav 
ish  its  choicest  rays  upon  the  little  tree, 
heaven  dropped  its  sweetest  dew  upon  it, 
and  the  winds  never  came  to  the  forest  that 
they  did  not  forget  their  rude  manners  and 
linger  to  kiss  the  little  tree  and  sing  it  their 
prettiest  songs.  No  danger  ever  menaced 
it,  no  harm  threatened;  for  the  angel  never 
slept, — through  the  day  and  through  the 
night  the  angel  watched  the  little  tree  and 
protected  it  from  all  evil.  Oftentimes  the 
trees  talked  with  the  angel;  but  of  course 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

they  understood  little  of  what  he  said,  for 
he  spoke  always  of  the  Child  who  was  to 
become  the  Master;  and  always  when  thus 
he  talked,  he  caressed  the  little  tree,  and 
stroked  its  branches  and  leaves,  and  mois 
tened  them  with  his  tears.  It  all  was  so 
very  strange  that  none  in  the  forest  could 
understand. 

So  the  years  passed,  the  angel  watching 
his  blooming  charge.  Sometimes  the  beasts 
strayed  toward  the  little  tree  and  threatened 
to  devour  its  tender  foliage;  sometimes  the 
woodman  came  with  his  axe,  intent  upon 
hewing  down  the  straight  and  comely  thing; 
sometimes  the  hot,  consuming  breath  of 
drought  swept  from  the  south,  and  sought 
to  blight  the  forest  and  all  its  verdure:  the 
angel  kept  them  from  the  little  tree.  Serene 
and  beautiful  it  grew,  until  now  it  was  no 
longer  a  little  tree,  but  the  pride  and  glory 
of  the  forest. 

One  day  the  tree  heard  some  one  coming 
through  the  forest.  Hitherto  the  angel  had 
hastened  to  its  side  when  men  approached; 
but  now  the  angel  strode  away  and  stood 
under  the  cedars  yonder. 
6 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

"Dear  angel,"  cried  the  tree,  "  can  you 
not  hear  the  footsteps  of  some  one  ap 
proaching?  Why  do  you  leave  me?" 

"  Have  no  fear,"  said  the  angel;  "for  He 
who  comes  is  the  Master." 

The  Master  came  to  the  tree  and  beheld  it. 
He  placed  His  hands  upon  its  smooth  trunk 
and  branches,  and  the  tree  was  thrilled  with 
a  strange  and  glorious  delight.  Then  He 
stooped  and  kissed  the  tree,  and  then  He 
turned  and  went  away. 

Many  times  after  that  the  Master  came  to 
the  forest,  and  when  He  came  it  always  was 
to  where  the  tree  stood.  Many  times  He 
rested  beneath  the  tree  and  enjoyed  the 
shade  of  its  foliage,  and  listened  to  the  mu 
sic  of  the  wind  as  it  swept  through  the  rus 
tling  leaves.  Many  times  He  slept  there, 
and  the  tree  watched  over  Him,  and  the 
forest  was  still,  and  all  its  voices  were 
hushed.  And  the  angel  hovered  near  like  a 
faithful  sentinel. 

Ever  and  anon  men  came  with  the  Master 
to  the  forest,  and  sat  with  Him  in  the  shade 
of  the  tree,  and  talked  with  Him  of  matters 
which  the  tree  never  could  understand; 

7 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

only  it  heard  that  the  talk  was  of  love  and 
charity  and  gentleness,  and  it  saw  that 
the  Master  was  beloved  and  venerated  by 
the  others.  It  heard  them  tell  of  the  Mas 
ter's  goodness  and  humility, —  how  He  had 
healed  the  sick  and  raised  the  dead  and  be 
stowed  inestimable  blessings  wherever  He 
walked.  And  the  tree  loved  the  Master  for 
His  beauty  and  His  goodness;  and  when 
He  came  to  the  forest  it  was  full  of  joy,  but 
when  He  came  not  it  was  sad.  And  the 
other  trees  of  the  forest  joined  in  its  hap 
piness  and  its  sorrow,  for  they,  too,  loved 
the  Master.  And  the  angel  always  hovered 
near. 

The  Master  came  one  night  alone  into  the 
forest,  and  His  face  was  pale  with  anguish 
and  wet  with  tears,  and  He  fell  upon  His 
knees  and  prayed.  The  tree  heard  Him, 
and  all  the  forest  was  still,  as  if  it  were 
standing  in  the  presence  of  death.  And 
when  the  morning  came,  lo!  the  angel  had 
gone. 

Then  there  was  a  great  confusion  in  the 
forest.  There  was  a  sound  of  rude  voices, 
and  a  clashing  of  swords  and  staves.  Strange 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

men  appeared,  uttering  loud  oaths  and  cruel 
threats,  and  the  tree  was  filled  with  terror. 
It  called  aloud  for  the  angel,  but  the  angel 
came  not. 

"Alas,"  cried  the  vine,  "they  have  come 
to  destroy  the  tree,  the  pride  and  glory  of 
the  forest! " 

The  forest  was  sorely  agitated,  but  it  was 
in  vain.  The  strange  men  plied  their  axes 
with  cruel  vigor,  and  the  tree  was  hewn 
to  the  ground.  Its  beautiful  branches  were 
cut  away  and  cast  aside,  and  its  soft,  thick 
foliage  was  strewn  to  the  tenderer  mercies 
of  the  winds. 

"They  are  killing  me  !  "  cried  the  tree  ; 
"why  is  not  the  angel  here  to  protect 
me?" 

But  no  one  heard  the  piteous  cry, —  none 
but  the  other  trees  of  the  forest  ;  and  they 
wept,  and  the  little  vine  wept  too. 

Then  the  cruel  men  dragged  the  despoiled 
and  hewn  tree  from  the  forest,  and  the  forest 
saw  that  beauteous  thing  no  more. 

But  the  night  wind  that  swept  down  from 
the  City  of  the  Great  King  that  night  to  ruffle 
the  bosom  of  distant  Galilee,  tarried  in  the 


PROFITABLE   TALES 


forest  awhile  to  say  that  it  had  seen  that  day 
a  cross  upraised  on  Calvary, — the  tree  on 
which  was  stretched  the  body  of  the  dying 
Master. 


» 

autJ  ti]c  £aint 
» 


THE   SYMBOL   AND   THE  SAINT 


ONCE  upon  a  time  a  young  man  made 
ready  for  a  voyage.  His  name  was 
Norss  ;  broad  were  his  shoulders,  his  cheeks 
were  ruddy,  his  hair  was  fair  and  long,  his 
body  betokened  strength,  and  good-nature 
shone  from  his  blue  eyes  and  lurked  about 
the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

' '  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  his  neigh 
bor  Jans,  the  forge-master. 

"lam  going  sailing  for  a  wife, "  said  Norss. 

"  For  a  wife,  indeed!  "  cried  Jans.  "And 
why  go  you  to  seek  her  in  foreign  lands  ? 
Are  not  our  maidens  good  enough  and  fair 
enough,  that  you  must  need  search  for  a  wife 
elsewhere  ?  For  shame,  Norss !  for  shame !  * 

But  Norss  said,  "A  spirit  came  to  me  in 
my  dreams  last  night  and  said,  '  Launch  the 
boat  and  set  sail  to-morrow.  Have  no  fear  ; 
'3 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

for  I  will  guide  you  to  the  bride  that  awaits 
you.'  Then,  standing  there,  all  white  and 
beautiful,  the  spirit  held  forth  a  symbol  — 
such  as  I  had  never  before  seen  —  in  the 
figure  of  a  cross,  and  the  spirit  said:  'By 
this  symbol  shall  she  be  known  to  you.' ' 

"If  this  be  so,  you  must  need  go,"  said 
Jans.  "  But  are  you  well  victualled  ?  Come 
to  my  cabin,  and  let  me  give  you  venison 
and  bear's  meat." 

Norss  shook  his  head.  "The  spirit  will 
provide,"  said  he.  "I  have  no  fear,  and  I 
shall  take  no  care,  trusting  in  the  spirit." 

So  Norss  pushed  his  boat  down  the  beach 
into  the  sea,  and  leaped  into  the  boat,  and 
unfurled  the  sail  to  the  wind.  Jan  stood 
wondering  on  the  beach,  and  watched  the 
boat  speed  out  of  sight. 

On,  on,  many  days  on  sailed  Norss, —  so 
many  leagues  that  he  thought  he  must  have 
compassed  the  earth.  In  all  this  time  he 
knew  no  hunger  nor  thirst;  it  was  as  the 
spirit  had  told  him  in  his  dream, — no  cares 
nor  dangers  beset  him.  By  day  the  dol 
phins  and  the  other  creatures  of  the  sea  gam 
bolled  about  his  boat ;  by  night  a  beauteous 

'4 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

Star  seemed  to  direct  his  course;  and  when 
he  slept  and  dreamed,  he  saw  ever  the  spirit 
clad  in  white,  and  holding  forth  to  him  the 
symbol  in  the  similitude  of  a  cross. 

At  last  he  came  to  a  strange  country, — a 
country  so  very  different  from  his  own  that 
he  could  scarcely  trust  his  senses.  Instead 
of  the  rugged  mountains  of  the  North,  he 
saw  a  gentle  landscape  of  velvety  green ;  the 
trees  were  not  pines  and  firs,  but  cypresses, 
cedars,  and  palms;  instead  of  the  cold,  crisp 
air  of  his  native  land,  he  scented  the  per 
fumed  zephyrs  of  the  Orient;  and  the  wind 
that  filled  the  sail  of  his  boat  and  smote  his 
tanned  cheeks  was  heavy  and  hot  with  the 
odor  of  cinnamon  and  spices.  The  waters 
were  calm  and  blue, —  very  different  from 
the  white  and  angry  waves  of  Norss's  native 
fiord. 

As  if  guided  by  an  unseen  hand,  the  boat 
pointed  straight  for  the  beach  of  this 
strangely  beautiful  land;  and  ere  its  prow 
cleaved  the  shallower  waters,  Norss  saw  a 
maiden  standing  on  the  shore,  shading  her 
eyes  with  her  right  hand,  and  gazing  in 
tently  at  him.  She  was  the  most  beautiful 
15 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

maiden  he  had  ever  looked  upon.  As  Norss 
was  fair,  so  was  this  maiden  dark;  her  black 
hair  fell  loosely  about  her  shoulders  in 
charming  contrast  with  the  white  raiment 
in  which  her  slender,  graceful  form  was 
clad.  Around  her  neck  she  wore  a  golden 
chain,  and  therefrom  was  suspended  a  small 
symbol,  which  Norss  did  not  immediately 
recognize. 

"  Hast  thou  come  sailing  out  of  the  North 
into  the  East  ?  "  asked  the  maiden. 

"Yes,"  said  Norss. 

"And  thou  art  Norss  ?  "  she  asked. 

"I  am  Norss;  and  I  come  seeking  my 
bride,"  he  answered. 

"I  am  she,"  said  the  maiden.  "  My  name 
is  Faia.  An  angel  came  to  me  in  my  dreams 
last  night,  and  the  angel  said:  'Stand  upon 
the  beach  to-day,  and  Norss  shall  come  out 
of  the  North  to  bear  thee  home  a  bride.' 
So,  coming  here,  I  found  thee  sailing  to  our 
shore." 

Remembering  then  the  spirit's  words, 
Norss  said:  "  What  symbol  have  you,  Faia, 
that  I  may  know  how  truly  you  have 
spoken  ?" 

16 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

"No  symbol  have  I  but  this,"  said  Faia, 
holding  out  the  symbol  that  was  attached 
to  the  golden  chain  about  her  neck.  Norss 
looked  upon  it,  and  lo!  it  was  the  symbol 
of  his  dreams, — a  tiny  wooden  cross. 

Then  Norss  clasped  Faia  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her,  and  entering  into  the  boat  they 
sailed  away  into  the  North.  In  all  their 
voyage  neither  care  nor  danger  beset  them; 
for  as  it  had  been  told  to  them  in  their 
dreams,  so  it  came  to  pass.  By  day  the  dol 
phins  and  the  other  creatures  of  the  sea 
gambolled  about  them;  by  night  the  winds 
and  the  waves  sang  them  to  sleep;  and, 
strangely  enough,  the  Star  which  before  had 
led  Norss  into  the  East,  now  shone  bright 
and  beautiful  in  the  Northern  sky! 

When  Norss  and  his  bride  reached  their 
home,  Jans,  the  forge-master,  and  the  other 
neighbors  made  great  joy,  and  all  said  that 
Faia  was  more  beautiful  than  any  other 
maiden  in  the  land.  So  merry  was  Jans 
that  he  built  a  huge  fire  in  his  forge,  and 
the  flames  thereof  filled  the  whole  Northern 
sky  with  rays  of  light  that  danced  up,  up, 
up  to  the  Star,  singing  glad  songs  the 


A    LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

while.  So  Norss  and  Faia  were  wed,  and 
they  went  to  live  in  the  cabin  in  the  fir- 
grove. 

To  these  two  was  born  in  good  time  a 
son,  whom  they  named  Glaus.  On  the  night 
that  he  was  born  wondrous  things  came 
to  pass.  To  the  cabin  in  the  fir-grove  came 
all  the  quaint,  weird  spirits, —  the  fairies,  the 
elves,  the  trolls,  the  pixies,  the  fadas,  the 
crions,  the  goblins,  the  kobolds,  the  moss- 
people,  the  gnomes,  the  dwarfs,  the  water- 
sprites,  the  courils,  the  bogles,  the  brownies, 
the  nixies,  the  trows,  the  stille-volk, —  all 
came  to  the  cabin  in  the  fir-grove,  and  ca 
pered  about  and  sang  the  strange,  beautiful 
songs  of  the  Mist-Land.  And  the  flames  of 
old  Jans's  forge  leaped  up  higher  than  ever 
into  the  Northern  sky,  carrying  the  joyous 
tidings  to  the  Star,  and  full  of  music  was 
that  happy  night. 

Even  in  infancy  Glaus  did  marvellous 
things.  With  his  baby  hands  he  wrought 
into  pretty  figures  the  willows  that  were 
given  him  to  play  with.  As  he  grew  older, 
he  fashioned,  with  the  knife  old  Jans  had 
made  for  him,  many  curious  toys, —  carts, 
18 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

horses,  dogs,  Iambs,  houses,  trees,  cats,  and 
birds,  all  of  wood  and  very  like  to  nature. 
His  mother  taught  him  how  to  make  dolls 
too, — dolls  of  every  kind,  condition,  tem 
per,  and  color;  proud  dolls,  homely  dolls, 
boy  dolls,  lady  dolls,  wax  dolls,  rubber 
dolls,  paper  dolls,  worsted  dolls,  rag  dolls, 
—  dolls  of  every  description  and  without 
end.  So  Glaus  became  at  once  quite  as 
popular  with  the  little  girls  as  with  the  little 
boys  of  his  native  village;  for  he  was  so 
generous  that  he  gave  away  all  these  pretty 
things  as  fast  as  he  made  them. 

Glaus  seemed  to  know  by  instinct  every 
language.  As  he  grew  older  he  would 
ramble  off  into  the  woods  and  talk  with 
the  trees,  the  rocks,  and  the  beasts  of  the 
greenwood;  or  he  would  sit  on  the  cliffs 
overlooking  the  fiord,  and  listen  to  the  sto 
ries  that  the  waves  of  the  sea  loved  to  tell 
him ;  then,  too,  he  knew  the  haunts  of  the 
elves  and  the  stille-volk,  and  many  a  pretty 
tale  he  learned  from  these  little  people. 
When  night  came,  old  Jans  told  him  the 
quaint  legends  of  the  North,  and  his  mother 
sang  to  him  the  lullabies  she  had  heard 

>9 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

when  a  little  child  herself  in  the  far-distant 
East.  And  every  night  his  mother  held  out 
to  him  the  symbol  in  the  similitude  of  the 
cross,  and  bade  him  kiss  it  ere  he  went  to 
sleep. 

So  Glaus  grew  to  manhood,  increasing 
each  day  in  knowledge  and  in  wisdom. 
His  works  increased  too;  and  his  liberality 
dispensed  everywhere  the  beauteous  things 
which  his  fancy  conceived  and  his  skill 
executed.  Jans,  being  now  a  very  old  man, 
and  having  no  son  of  his  own,  gave  to 
Glaus  his  forge  and  workshop,  and  taught 
him  those  secret  arts  which  he  in  youth 
had  learned  from  cunning  masters.  Right 
joyous  now  was  Glaus;  and  many,  many 
times  the  Northern  sky  glowed  with  the 
flames  that  danced  singing  from  the  forge 
while  Glaus  moulded  his  pretty  toys. 
Every  color  of  the  rainbow  were  these 
flames;  for  they  reflected  the  bright  colors 
of  the  beauteous  things  strewn  round  that 
wonderful  workshop.  Just  as  of  old  he 
had  dispensed  to  all  children  alike  the  home 
lier  toys  of  his  youth,  so  now  he  gave  to 
all  children  alike  these  more  beautiful  and 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

more  curious  gifts.  So  little  children  every 
where  loved  Glaus,  because  he  gave  them 
pretty  toys,  and  their  parents  loved  him  be 
cause  he  made  their  little  ones  so  happy. 

But  now  Norss  and  Faia  were  come  to 
old  age.  After  long  years  of  love  and  hap 
piness,  they  knew  that  death  could  not  be 
far  distant.  And  one  day  Faia  said  to  Norss : 
"Neither  you  nor  I,  dear  love,  fear  death; 
but  if  we  could  choose,  would  we  not 
choose  to  live  always  in  this  our  son 
Glaus,  who  has  been  so  sweet  a  joy  to  us  ?  " 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Norss;  "but  how  is  that 
possible?" 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Faia. 

That  night  Norss  dreamed  that  a  spirit 
came  to  him,  and  that  the  spirit  said  to 
him:  "Norss,  thou  shalt  surely  live  forever 
in  thy  son  Glaus,  if  thou  wilt  but  acknow 
ledge  the  symbol." 

Then  when  the  morning  was  come  Norss 
told  his  dream  to  Faia,  his  wife;  and  Faia 
said, — 

"The  same  dream  had  I, — an  angel  ap 
pearing  to  me  and  speaking  these  very 
words." 


A   LITTLE  BOOK  OF 

' '  But  what  of  the  symbol  ?  "  cried  Norss. 

"I  have  it  here,  about  my  neck,"  said 
Faia. 

So  saying,  Faia  drew  from  her  bosom  the 
symbol  of  wood, — a  tiny  cross  suspended 
about  her  neck  by  the  golden  chain.  And 
as  she  stood  there  holding  the  symbol  out 
to  Norss,  he — he  thought  of  the  time  when 
first  he  saw  her  on  the  far-distant  Orient 
shore,  standing  beneath  the  Star  in  all  her 
maidenly  glory,  shading  her  beauteous  eyes 
with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  clasping 
the  cross, — the  holy  talisman  of  her  faith. 

"Faia,  Faia!"  cried  Norss,  "it  is  the 
same, — the  same  you  wore  when  I  fetched 
you  a  bride  from  the  East!  " 

"It  is  the  same,"  said  Faia,  "yet  see 
how  my  kisses  and  my  prayers  have  worn 
it  away;  for  many,  many  times  in  these 
years,  dear  Norss,  have  I  pressed  it  to  my 
lips  and  breathed  your  name  upon  it.  See 
now — see  what  a  beauteous  light  its  sha 
dow  makes  upon  your  aged  face!  " 

The  sunbeams,  indeed,  streaming  through 
the  window  at  that  moment,  cast  the  shadow 
of  the  symbol  on  old  Norss's  brow.  Norss 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

felt  a  glorious  warmth  suffuse  him,  his 
heart  leaped  with  joy,  and  he  stretched  out 
his  arms  and  fell  about  Faia's  neck,  and 
kissed  the  symbol  and  acknowledged  it. 
Then  likewise  did  Faia;  and  suddenly  the 
place  was  filled  with  a  wondrous  brightness 
and  with  strange  music,  and  never  there 
after  were  Norss  and  Faia  beholden  of  men. 

Until  late  that  night  Glaus  toiled  at  his 
forge;  for  it  was  a  busy  season  with  him, 
and  he  had  many,  many  curious  and  beau 
teous  things  to  make  for  the  little  children 
in  the  country  round  about.  The  colored 
flames  leaped  singing  from  his  forge,  so  that 
the  Northern  sky  seemed  to  be  lighted  by  a 
thousand  rainbows ;  but  above  all  this  voice- 
ful  glory  beamed  the  Star,  bright,  beautiful, 
serene. 

Coming  late  to  the  cabin  in  the  fir-grove, 
Glaus  wondered  that  no  sign  of  his  father 
or  of  his  mother  was  to  be  seen.  "  Father 
—  mother!"  he  cried,  but  he  received  no 
answer.  Just  then  the  Star  cast  its  golden 
gleam  through  the  latticed  window,  and 
this  strange,  holy  light  fell  and  rested  upon 
the  symbol  of  the  cross  that  lay  upon  the 

23 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

floor.  Seeing  it,  Glaus  stooped  and  picked 
it  up,  and  kissing  it  reverently,  he  cried: 
"Dear  talisman,  be  thou  my  inspiration 
evermore;  and  wheresoever  thy  blessed  in 
fluence  is  felt,  there  also  let  my  works  be 
known  henceforth  forever!" 

No  sooner  had  he  said  these  words  than 
Glaus  felt  the  gift  of  immortality  bestowed 
upon  him;  and  in  that  moment,  too,  there 
came  to  him  a  knowledge  that  his  parents' 
prayer  had  been  answered,  and  that  Norss 
and  Faia  would  live  in  him  through  all  time. 

And  lo!  to  that  place  and  in  that  hour 
came  all  the  people  of  Mist-Land  and  of 
Dream-Land  to  declare  allegiance  to  him : 
yes,  the  elves,  the  fairies,  the  pixies, —  all 
came  to  Glaus,  prepared  to  do  his  bidding. 
Joyously  they  capered  about  him,  and  mer 
rily  they  sang. 

"Now  haste  ye  all,"  cried  Glaus, — "haste 
ye  all  to  your  homes  and  bring  to  my  work 
shop  the  best  ye  have.  Search,  little  hill- 
people,  deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  for 
finest  gold  and  choicest  jewels;  fetch  me,  O 
mermaids,  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea  the 
treasures  hidden  there, —  the  shells  of  rain- 
24 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

bow  tints,  the  smooth,  bright  pebbles,  and 
the  strange  ocean  flowers;  go,  pixies,  and 
other  water-sprites,  to  your  secret  lakes, 
and  bring  me  pearls!  Speed!  speed  you 
all !  for  many  pretty  things  have  we  to  make 
for  the  little  ones  of  earth  we  love!  " 

But  to  the  kobolds  and  the  brownies 
Glaus  said:  "Fly  to  every  house  on  earth 
where  the  cross  is  known;  loiter  unseen  in 
the  corners,  and  watch  and  hear  the  chil 
dren  through  the  day.  Keep  a  strict  ac 
count  of  good  and  bad,  and  every  night 
bring  back  to  me  the  names  of  good  and 
bad,  that  I  may  know  them." 

The  kobolds  and  the  brownies  laughed 
gleefully,  and  sped  away  on  noiseless  wings ; 
and  so,  too,  did  the  other  fairies  and  elves. 

There  came  also  to  Glaus  the  beasts  of 
the  forest  and  the  birds  of  the  air,  and  bade 
him  be  their  master.  And  up  danced  the 
Four  Winds,  and  they  said:  "May  we  not 
serve  you,  too  ?  " 

The  snow-king  came  stealing  along  in 
his  feathery  chariot.  "  Oho!  "  he  cried,  "I 
shall  speed  over  all  the  world  and  tell  them 
you  are  coming.  In  town  and  country,  on 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

the  mountain-tops  and  in  the  valleys, — 
wheresoever  the  cross  is  raised, —  there  will 
I  herald  your  approach,  and  thither  will  I 
strew  you  a  pathway  of  feathery  white. 
Oho!  oho!"  So,  singing  softly,  the  snow- 
king  stole  upon  his  way. 

But  of  all  the  beasts  that  begged  to  do 
him  service,  Glaus  liked  the  reindeer  best. 
"You  shall  go  with  me  in  my  travels;  for 
henceforth  I  shall  bear  my  treasures  not  only 
to  the  children  of  the  North,  but  to  the  chil 
dren  in  every  land  whither  the  Star  points 
me  and  where  the  cross  is  lifted  up!"  So 
said  Glaus  to  the  reindeer,  and  the  reindeer 
neighed  joyously  and  stamped  their  hoofs 
impatiently,  as  though  they  longed  to  start 
immediately. 

Oh,  many,  many  times  has  Glaus  whirled 
away  from  his  far  Northern  home  in  his 
sledge  drawn  by  the  reindeer,  and  thou 
sands  upon  thousands  of  beautiful  gifts  — 
all  of  his  own  making  —  has  he  borne  to 
the  children  of  every  land ;  for  he  loves  them 
all  alike,  and  they  all  alike  love  him,  I  trow. 
So  truly  do  they  love  him  that  they  call 
him  Santa  Glaus,  and  1  am  sure  that  he  must 
26 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

be  a  saint;  for  he  has  lived  these  many  hun 
dred  years,  and  we,  who  know  that  he 
was  born  of  Faith  and  Love,  believe  that 
he  will  live  forever. 

1886. 


€fje  Coming  of  tj)c  $trhice 


THE   COMING  OF  THE   PRINCE 

I 

WHIRR-R-R!  whirr-r-r!  whirr-r-r!" 
said  the  wind,  and  it  tore  through 
the  streets  of  the  city  that  Christmas  eve, 
turning  umbrellas  inside  out,  driving  the 
snow  in  fitful  gusts  before  it,  creaking  the 
rusty  signs  and  shutters,  and  playing  every 
kind  of  rude  prank  it  could  think  of. 

"How  cold  your  breath  is  to-night!" 
said  Barbara,  with  a  shiver,  as  she  drew  her 
tattered  little  shawl  the  closer  around  her  be 
numbed  body. 

"Whirr-r-r!  whirr-r-r!  whirr-r-r!"  an 
swered  the  wind;  "but  why  are  you  out  in 
this  storm  ?  You  should  be  at  home  by  the 
warm  fire." 

"I  have  no  home,"  said  Barbara;  and 
then  she  sighed  bitterly,  and  something  like 
a  tiny  pearl  came  in  the  corner  of  one  of  her 
sad  blue  eyes. 

31 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

But  the  wind  did  not  hear  her  answer,  for 
it  had  hurried  up  the  street  to  throw  a  hand 
ful  of  snow  in  the  face  of  an  old  man  who 
was  struggling  along  with  a  huge  basket  of 
good  things  on  each  arm. 

"Why  are  you  not  at  the  cathedral?" 
asked  a  snowflake,  as  it  alighted  on  Bar 
bara's  shoulder.  "I  heard  grand  music, 
and  saw  beautiful  lights  there  as  I  floated 
down  from  the  sky  a  moment  ago." 

"  What  are  they  doing  at  the  cathedral  ?  " 
inquired  Barbara. 

"Why,  have  n't  you  heard?"  exclaimed 
the  snowflake.  "I  supposed  everybody 
knew  that  the  prince  was  coming  to-mor 
row." 

"Surely  enough;  this  is  Christmas  eve," 
said  Barbara,  "  and  the  prince  will  come  to 
morrow." 

Barbara  remembered  that  her  mother  had 
told  her  about  the  prince,  how  beautiful  and 
good  and  kind  and  gentle  he  was,  and  how 
he  loved  the  little  children;  but  her  mother 
was  dead  now,  and  there  was  none  to  tell 
Barbara  of  the  prince  and  his  coming, — 
none  but  the  little  snowflake. 
32 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  prince,"  said 
Barbara,  "for  I  have  heard  he  was  very 
beautiful  and  good." 

"That  he  is,"  said  the  snowflake.  "I 
have  never  seen  him,  but  I  heard  the  pines 
and  the  firs  singing  about  him  as  I  floated 
over  the  forest  to-night." 

"  Whirr-r-r!  whirr-r-r!"  cried  the  wind, 
returning  boisterously  to  where  Barbara 
stood.  "I  Ve  been  looking  for  you  every 
where,  little  snowflake  !  So  come  with 
me." 

And  without  any  further  ado,  the  wind 
seized  upon  the  snowflake  and  hurried  it 
along  the  street  and  led  it  a  merry  dance 
through  the  icy  air  of  the  winter  night. 

Barbara  trudged  on  through  the  snow  and 
looked  in  at  the  bright  things  in  the  shop 
windows.  The  glitter  of  the  lights  and  the 
sparkle  of  the  vast  array  of  beautiful  Christ 
mas  toys  quite  dazzled  her.  A  strange 
mingling  of  admiration,  regret,  and  envy 
filled  the  poor  little  creature's  heart. 

"Much  as  I  may  yearn  to  have  them,  it 
cannot  be,"  she  said  to  herself,  "yet  I  may 
feast  my  eyes  upon  them." 
33 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

"Go  away  from  here!  "  said  a  harsh  voice. 
"How  can  the  rich  people  see  all  my  fine 
things  if  you  stand  before  the  window  ?  Be 
off  with  you,  you  miserable  little  beggar!" 

It  was  the  shopkeeper,  and  he  gave  Bar 
bara  a  savage  box  on  the  ear  that  sent  her 
reeling  into  the  deeper  snowdrifts  of  the 
gutter. 

Presently  she  came  to  a  large  house  where 
there  seemed  to  be  much  mirth  and  festivity. 
The  shutters  were  thrown  open,  and  through 
the  windows  Barbara  could  see  a  beautiful 
Christmas  tree  in  the  centre  of  a  spacious 
room, — a  beautiful  Christmas  tree  ablaze 
with  red  and  green  lights,  and  heavy  with 
toys  and  stars  and  glass  balls,  and  other 
beautiful  things  that  children  love.  There 
was  a  merry  throng  around  the  tree,  and 
the  children  were  smiling  and  gleeful,  and 
all  in  that  house  seemed  content  and  happy. 
Barbara  heard  them  singing,  and  their  song 
was  about  the  prince  who  was  to  come  on 
the  morrow. 

"This  must  be  the  house  where  the  prince 
will  stop, "  thought  Barbara.  ' '  How  I  would 
like  to  see  his  face  and  hear  his  voice  !  —  yet 

34 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

what  would  he  care  for  me,  a  '  miserable  little 
beggar'?" 

So  Barbara  crept  on  through  the  storm, 
shivering  and  disconsolate,  yet  thinking  of 
the  prince. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked  of 
the  wind  as  it  overtook  her. 

"To  the  cathedral,"  laughed  the  wind. 
"  The  great  people  are  flocking  there,  and  I 
will  have  a  merry  time  amongst  them,  ha, 
ha,  ha! " 

And  with  laughter  the  wind  whirled  away 
and  chased  the  snow  toward  the  cathedral. 

"It  is  there,  then,  that  the  prince  will 
come,"  thought  Barbara.  "It  is  a  beautiful 
place,  and  the  people  will  pay  him  homage 
there.  Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  if  I  go  there." 

So  she  went  to  the  cathedral.  Many  folk 
were  there  in  their  richest  apparel,  and  the 
organ  rolled  out  its  grand  music,  and  the 
people  sang  wondrous  songs,  and  the  priests 
made  eloquent  prayers;  and  the  music,  and 
the  songs,  and  the  prayers  were  all  about  the 
prince  and  his  expected  coming.  The  throng 
that  swept  in  and  out  of  the  great  edifice 
talked  always  of  the  prince,  the  prince,  the 
35 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

prince,  until  Barbara  really  loved  him  very 
much,  for  all  the  gentle  words  she  heard  the 
people  say  of  him. 

"Please,  can  I  go  and  sit  inside?"  in 
quired  Barbara  of  the  sexton. 

"No!"  said  the  sexton,  gruffly,  for  this 
was  an  important  occasion  with  the  sexton, 
and  he  had  no  idea  of  wasting  words  on  a 
beggar  child. 

"But  I  will  be  very  good  and  quiet," 
pleaded  Barbara.  "Please,  may  I  not  see 
the  prince  ?" 

"I  have  said  no,  and  I  mean  it,"  retorted 
the  sexton.  "What  have  you  for  the  prince, 
or  what  cares  the  prince  for  you  ?  Out  with 
you,  and  don't  be  blocking  up  the  door 
way!"  So  the  sexton  gave  Barbara  an 
angry  push,  and  the  child  fell  half-way  down 
the  icy  steps  of  the  cathedral.  She  began  to 
cry.  Some  great  people  were  entering  the 
cathedral  at  the  time,  and  they  laughed  to 
see  her  falling. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  prince?  "  inquired  a 

snowflake,  alighting  on  Barbara's  cheek.    It 

was  the  same  little  snowflake  that  had  clung 

to  her  shawl  an  hour  ago,  when  the  wind 

56 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

came  galloping  along  on  his  boisterous 
search. 

"Ah,  no!  "sighed  Barbara,  in  tears;  "but 
what  cares  the  prince  for  me?" 

"  Do  not  speak  so  bitterly,"  said  the  little 
snowflake.  "Go  to  the  forest  and  you  shall 
see  him,  for  the  prince  always  comes  through 
the  forest  to  the  city." 

Despite  the  cold,  and  her  bruises,  and  her 
tears,  Barbara  smiled.  In  the  forest  she 
could  behold  the  prince  coming  on  his  way; 
and  he  would  not  see  her,  for  she  would 
hide  among  the  trees  and  vines. 

"  Whirr-r-r,  whirr-r-r!  "  It  was  the  mis 
chievous,  romping  wind  once  more;  and  it 
fluttered  Barbara's  tattered  shawl,  and  set 
her  hair  to  streaming  in  every  direction,  and 
swept  the  snowflake  from  her  cheek  and 
sent  it  spinning  through  the  air. 

Barbara  trudged  toward  the  forest.  When 
she  came  to  the  city  gate  the  watchman 
stopped  her,  and  held  his  big  lantern  in  her 
face,  and  asked  her  who  she  was  and  where 
she  was  going. 

"  I  am  Barbara,  and  I  am  going  into  the 
forest,"  said  she,  boldly. 

37 


A   LITTLE  BOOK  OF 

"Into  the  forest?"  cried  the  watchman, 
"and  in  this  storm?  No,  child;  you  will 
perish! " 

"  But  I  am  going  to  see  the  prince,"  said 
Barbara.  "They  will  not  let  me  watch  for 
him  in  the  church,  nor  in  any  of  their  pleas 
ant  homes,  so  I  am  going  into  the  forest." 

The  watchman  smiled  sadly.  He  was  a 
kindly  man;  he  thought  of  his  own  little 
girl  at  home. 

"No,  you  must  not  go  to  the  forest,"  said 
he,  "for  you  would  perish  with  the  cold." 

But  Barbara  would  not  stay.  She  avoided 
the  watchman's  grasp  and  ran  as  fast  as 
ever  she  could  through  the  city  gate. 

"Come  back,  come  back!"  cried  the 
watchman ;  ' '  you  will  perish  in  the  forest !  " 

But  Barbara  would  not  heed  his  cry.  The 
falling  snow  did  not  stay  her,  nor  did  the 
cutting  blast.  She  thought  only  of  the 
prince,  and  she  ran  straightway  to  the  forest. 

II 

"WHAT  do  you  see  up  there,  O  pine- 
tree  ? "  asked  a  little  vine  in  the  forest. 

38 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

"You  lift  your  head  among  the  clouds  to 
night,  and  you  tremble  strangely  as  if  you 
saw  wondrous  sights." 

"I  see  only  the  distant  hill-tops  and  the 
dark  clouds, "  answered  the  pine-tree.  '  'And 
the  wind  sings  of  the  snow-king  to-night; 
to  all  my  questionings  he  says,  'Snow,  snow, 
snow,'  till  I  am  weary  with  his  refrain." 

"  But  the  prince  will  surely  come  to-mor 
row?"  inquired  the  tiny  snowdrop  that 
nestled  close  to  the  vine. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  vine.  "I  heard  the 
country  folks  talking  about  it  as  they  went 
through  the  forest  to-day,  and  they  said  that 
the  prince  would  surely  come  on  the  mor 
row." 

"What  are  you  little  folks  down  there 
talking  about?"  asked  the  pine-tree. 

"We  are  talking  about  the  prince,"  said 
the  vine. 

"Yes,  he  is  to  come  on  the  morrow," 
said  the  pine-tree,  "but  not  until  the  day 
dawns,  and  it  is  still  all  dark  in  the  east." 

' '  Yes, "  said  the  fir-tree,  "the  east  is  black, 
and  only  the  wind  and  the  snow  issue  from 
it." 

39 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

"  Keep  your  head  out  of  my  way !  "  cried 
the  pine-tree  to  the  fir;  "  with  your  constant 
bobbing  around  I  can  hardly  see  at  all." 

"Take  that  for  your  bad  manners,"  re 
torted  the  fir,  slapping  the  pine-tree  savagely 
with  one  of  her  longest  branches. 

The  pine-tree  would  put  up  with  no  such 
treatment,  so  he  hurled  his  largest  cone  at 
the  fir;  and  for  a  moment  or  two  it  looked 
as  if  there  were  going  to  be  a  serious  com 
motion  in  the  forest. 

"Hush!"  cried  the  vine  in  a  startled 
tone;  "there  is  some  one  coming  through 
the  forest." 

The  pine-tree  and  the  fir  stopped  quarrel 
ling,  and  the  snowdrop  nestled  closer  to  the 
vine,  while  the  vine  hugged  the  pine-tree 
very  tightly.  All  were  greatly  alarmed. 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  pine-tree,  in  a  tone 
of  assumed  bravery.  "No  one  would  ven 
ture  into  the  forest  at  such  an  hour." 

"Indeed!  and  why  not?"  cried  a  child's 
voice.  "Will  you  not  let  me  watch  with 
you  for  the  coming  of  the  prince  ?  " 

"  Will  you  not  chop  me  down  ?  "  inquired 
the  pine-tree,  gruffly. 
40 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

"Will  you  not  tear  me  from  my  tree?" 
asked  the  vine. 

"Will  you  not  pluck  my  blossoms?" 
plaintively  piped  the  snowdrop. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Barbara;  "I 
have  come  only  to  watch  with  you  for  the 
prince." 

Then  Barbara  told  them  who  she  was, 
and  how  cruelly  she  had  been  treated  in  the 
city,  and  how  she  longed  to  see  the  prince, 
who  was  to  come  on  the  morrow.  And  as 
she  talked,  the  forest  and  all  therein  felt  a 
great  compassion  for  her. 

"Lie  at  my  feet,"  said  the  pine-tree, 
"and  I  will  protect  you." 

"Nestle  close  to  me,  and  I  will  chafe  your 
temples  and  body  and  limbs  till  they  are 
warm,"  said  the  vine. 

"Let  me  rest  upon  your  cheek,  and  I 
will  sing  you  my  little  songs,"  said  the 
snowdrop. 

And  Barbara  felt  very  grateful  for  all  these 
homely  kindnesses.  She  rested  in  the  vel 
vety  snow  at  the  foot  of  the  pine-tree,  and 
the  vine  chafed  her  body  and  limbs,  and  the 
little  flower  sang  sweet  songs  to  her. 
4' 


A    LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

"  Whirr-r-r,  whirr-r-r!  "  There  was  that 
noisy  wind  again,  but  this  time  it  was  gen 
tler  than  it  had  been  in  the  city. 

"Here  you  are,  my  little  Barbara,"  said 
the  wind,  in  kindly  tones.  "I  have  brought 
you  the  little  snowflake.  I  am  glad  you 
came  away  from  the  city,  for  the  people  are 
proud  and  haughty  there;  oh,  but  I  will 
have  my  fun  with  them !  " 

Then,  having  dropped  the  little  snowflake 
on  Barbara's  cheek,  the  wind  whisked  off 
to  the  city  again.  And  we  can  imagine 
that  it  played  rare  pranks  with  the  proud, 
haughty  folk  on  its  return ;  for  the  wind,  as 
you  know,  is  no  respecter  of  persons. 

' '  Dear  Barbara, "  said  the  snowflake, ' '  I  will 
watch  with  thee  for  the  coming  of  the  prince. " 

And  Barbara  was  glad,  for  she  loved  the 
little  snowflake,  that  was  so  pure  and  inno 
cent  and  gentle. 

"Tell  us,  O  pine-tree,"  cried  the  vine, 
"what  do  you  see  in  the  east?  Has  the 
prince  yet  entered  the  forest  ?  " 

"The  east  is  full  of  black  clouds,"  said 
the  pine-tree,  "and  the  winds  that  hurry  to 
the  hill-tops  sing  of  the  snow." 
42 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

"But  the  city  is  full  of  brightness,"  said 
the  fir.  "I  can  see  the  lights  in  the  cathe 
dral,  and  I  can  hear  wondrous  music  about 
the  prince  and  his  coming." 

"Yes,  they  are  singing  of  the  prince  in 
the  cathedral,"  said  Barbara,  sadly. 

"But  we  shall  see  him  first,"  whispered 
the  vine,  reassuringly. 

"Yes,  the  prince  will  come  through  the 
forest,"  said  the  little  snowdrop,  gleefully. 

"Fear  not,  dear  Barbara,  we  shall  behold 
the  prince  in  all  his  glory,"  cried  the  snow- 
flake. 

Then  all  at  once  there  was  a  strange  hub 
bub  in  the  forest;  for  it  was  midnight,  and 
the  spirits  came  from  their  hiding-places  to 
prowl  about  and  to  disport  themselves. 
Barbara  beheld  them  all  in  great  wonder 
and  trepidation,  for  she  had  never  before 
seen  the  spirits  of  the  forest,  although  she 
had  often  heard  of  them.  It  was  a  marvel 
lous  sight. 

"Fear  nothing,"  whispered  the  vine  to 
Barbara, — "fear  nothing,  for  they  dare  not 
touch  you." 

The  antics  of  the  wood-spirits  continued 

43 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

but  an  hour;  for  then  a  cock  crowed,  and 
immediately  thereat,  with  a  wondrous  scur 
rying,  the  elves  and  the  gnomes  and  the 
other  grotesque  spirits  sought  their  abiding- 
places  in  the  caves  and  in  the  hollow  trunks 
and  under  the  loose  bark  of  the  trees.  And 
then  it  was  very  quiet  once  more  in  the 
forest. 

"It  is  very  cold,"  said  Barbara.  "My 
hands  and  feet  are  like  ice." 

Then  the  pine-tree  and  the  fir  shook  down 
the  snow  from  their  broad  boughs,  and  the 
snow  fell  upon  Barbara  and  covered  her  like 
a  white  mantle. 

"You  will  be  warm  now, "said  the  vine, 
kissing  Barbara's  forehead.  And  Barbara 
smiled. 

Then  the  snowdrop  sang  a  lullaby  about 
the  moss  that  loved  the  violet.  And  Bar 
bara  said,  "I  am  going  to  sleep;  will  you 
wake  me  when  the  prince  comes  through 
the  forest?" 

And  they  said  they  would.  So  Barbara 
fell  asleep. 


44 


PROFITABLE  TALES 
III 

"THE  bells  in  the  city  are  ringing  mer 
rily,"  said  the  fir,  "and  the  music  in  the 
cathedral  is  louder  and  more  beautiful  than 
before.  Can  it  be  that  the  prince  has  al 
ready  come  into  the  city  ?  " 

"No,"  cried  the  pine-tree,  "look  to  the 
east  and  see  the  Christmas  day  a-dawning! 
The  prince  is  coming,  and  his  pathway  is 
through  the  forest!" 

The  storm  had  ceased.  Snow  lay  upon 
all  the  earth.  The  hills,  the  forest,  the  city, 
and  the  meadows  were  white  with  the  robe 
the  storm-king  had  thrown  over  them. 
Content  with  his  wondrous  work,  the 
storm-king  himself  had  fled  to  his  far  North 
ern  home  before  the  dawn  of  the  Christmas 
day.  Everything  was  bright  and  sparkling 
and  beautiful.  And  most  beautiful  was  the 
great  hymn  of  praise  the  forest  sang  that 
Christmas  morning, —  the  pine-trees  and  the 
firs  and  the  vines  and  the  snow-flowers  that 
sang  of  the  prince  and  of  his  promised  coming. 

"Wake  up,  little  one,"  cried  the  vine, 
"for  the  prince  is  coming!  " 

45 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

But  Barbara  slept;  she  did  not  hear  the 
vine's  soft  calling,  nor  the  lofty  music  of 
the  forest. 

A  little  snow-bird  flew  down  from  the 
fir-tree's  bough  and  perched  upon  the  vine, 
and  carolled  in  Barbara's  ear  of  the  Christ 
mas  morning  and  of  the  coming  of  the 
prince.  But  Barbara  slept;  she  did  not  hear 
the  carol  of  the  bird. 

"Alas!"  sighed  the  vine,  "Barbara  will 
not  awaken,  and  the  prince  is  coming." 

Then  the  vine  and  the  snowdrop  wept, 
and  the  pine-tree  and  the  fir  were  very  sad. 

The  prince  came  through  the  forest  clad 
in  royal  raiment  and  wearing  a  golden 
crown.  Angels  came  with  him,  and  the  for 
est  sang  a  great  hymn  unto  the  prince,  such 
a  hymn  as  had  never  before  been  heard  on 
earth.  The  prince  came  to  the  sleeping  child 
and  smiled  upon  her  and  called  her  by  name. 

"  Barbara,  my  little  one,"  said  the  prince, 
"awaken,  and  come  with  me." 

Then  Barbara  opened  her  eyes  and  beheld 

the  prince.     And  it  seemed  as  if  a  new  life 

had  come  to  her,  for  there  was  warmth  in 

her  body,  and  a  flush  upon  her  cheeks  and 

46 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

a  light  in  her  eyes  that  were  divine.  And 
she  was  clothed  no  longer  in  rags,  but  in 
white  flowing  raiment;  and  upon  the  soft 
brown  hair  there  was  a  crown  like  those 
which  angels  wear.  And  as  Barbara  arose 
and  went  to  the  prince,  the  little  snowflake 
fell  from  her  cheek  upon  her  bosom,  and 
forthwith  became  a  pearl  more  precious  than 
all  other  jewels  upon  earth. 

And  the  prince  took  Barbara  in  his  arms 
and  blessed  her,  and  turning  round  about, 
returned  with  the  little  child  unto  his  home, 
while  the  forest  and  the  sky  and  the  angels 
sang  a  wondrous  song. 

The  city  waited  for  the  prince,  but  he  did 
not  come.  None  knew  of  the  glory  of  the 
forest  that  Christmas  morning,  nor  of  the 
new  life  that  came  to  little  Barbara. 

Come  thou,  dear  Prince,  oh,  come  to  us 
this  holy  Christmas  time  !  Come  to  the  busy 
marts  of  earth,  the  quiet  homes,  the  noisy 
streets,  the  humble  lanes;  come  to  us  all, 
and  with  thy  love  touch  every  human  heart, 
that  we  may  know  that  love,  and  in  its  blessed 
peace  bear  charity  to  all  mankind! 

1886. 

47 


* 

ant)  ttic 

« 


THE  MOUSE  AND  THE  MOONBEAM 


WHILST  you  were  sleeping,  little  Dear- 
my-Soul,  strange  things  happened; 
but  that  I  saw  and  heard  them,  I  should 
never  have  believed  them.  The  clock  stood, 
of  course,  in  the  corner,  a  moonbeam  floated 
idly  on  the  floor,  and  a  little  mauve  mouse 
came  from  the  hole  in  the  chimney  corner 
and  frisked  and  scampered  in  the  light  of 
the  moonbeam  upon  the  floor.  The  lit 
tle  mauve  mouse  was  particularly  merry; 
sometimes  she  danced  upon  two  legs  and 
sometimes  upon  four  legs,  but  always  very 
daintily  and  always  very  merrily. 

"Ah,  me!"  sighed  the  old  clock,  "how 
different  mice  are  nowadays  from  the  mice 
we  used  to  have  in  the  good  old  times! 
Now  there  was  your  grandma,  Mistress 
Velvetpaw,  and  there  was  your  grandpa, 
51 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

Master  Sniffwhisker,  —  how  grave  and  dig 
nified  they  were  !  Many  a  night  have  I 
seen  them  dancing  upon  the  carpet  below 
me,  but  always  the  stately  minuet  and  never 
that  crazy  frisking  which  you  are  executing 
now,  to  my  surprise  —  yes,  and  to  my  hor 
ror,  too." 

"  But  why  should  n't  I  be  merry?"  asked 
the  little  mauve  mouse.  "To-morrow  is 
Christmas,  and  this  is  Christmas  eve." 

"So  it  is,"  said  the  old  clock.  "I  had 
really  forgotten  all  about  it.  But,  tell  me, 
what  is  Christmas  to  you,  little  Miss  Mauve 
Mouse?" 

"A  great  deal  to  me!"  cried  the  little 
mauve  mouse.  "I  have  been  very  good  a 
very  long  time:  1  have  not  used  any  bad 
words,  nor  have  I  gnawed  any  holes,  nor 
have  I  stolen  any  canary  seed,  nor  have  I 
worried  my  mother  by  running  behind  the 
flour-barrel  where  that  horrid  trap  is  set. 
In  fact,  I  have  been  so  good  that  I  'm  very 
sure  Santa  Claus  will  bring  me  something 
very  pretty." 

This  seemed  to  amuse  the  old  clock  might 
ily  ;  in  fact,  the  old  clock  fell  to  laughing  so 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

heartily  that  in  an  unguarded  moment  she 
struck  twelve  instead  of  ten,  which  was  ex 
ceedingly  careless  and  therefore  to  be  repre 
hended. 

"Why,  you  silly  little  mauve  mouse," 
said  the  old  clock,  "you  don't  believe  in 
Santa  Glaus,  do  you  ?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  answered  the  little 
mauve  mouse.  "Believe  in  Santa  Glaus? 
Why  should  n't  I  ?  Did  n't  Santa  Glaus 
bring  me  a  beautiful  butter-cracker  last 
Christmas,  and  a  lovely  gingersnap,  and  a 
delicious  rind  of  cheese,  and  —  and — lots 
of  things  ?  I  should  be  very  ungrateful  if  I 
did  not  believe  in  Santa  Glaus,  and  I  cer 
tainly  shall  not  disbelieve  in  him  at  the 
very  moment  when  I  am  expecting  him  to 
arrive  with  a  bundle  of  goodies  for  me. 

"  I  once  had  a  little  sister,"  continued  the 
little  mauve  mouse,  "who  did  not  believe 
in  Santa  Glaus,  and  the  very  thought  of  the 
fate  that  befell  her  makes  my  blood  run 
cold  and  my  whiskers  stand  on  end.  She 
died  before  I  was  born,  but  my  mother  has 
told  me  all  about  her.  Perhaps  you  never 
saw  her;  her  name  was  Squeaknibble,  and 

53 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

she  was  in  stature  one  of  those  long,  low, 
rangy  mice  that  are  seldom  found  in  well- 
stocked  pantries.  Mother  says  that  Squeak- 
nibble  took  after  our  ancestors  who  came 
from  New  England,  where  the  malignant 
ingenuity  of  the  people  and  the  ferocity 
of  the  cats  rendered  life  precarious  indeed. 
Squeaknibble  seemed  to  inherit  many  an 
cestral  traits,  the  most  conspicuous  of  which 
was  a  disposition  to  sneer  at  some  of  the 
most  respected  dogmas  in  mousedom. 
From  her  very  infancy  she  doubted,  for  ex 
ample,  the  widely  accepted  theory  that  the 
moon  was  composed  of  green  cheese;  and 
this  heresy  was  the  first  intimation  her  par 
ents  had  of  the  sceptical  turn  of  her  mind. 
Of  course,  her  parents  were  vastly  annoyed, 
for  their  maturer  natures  saw  that  this 
youthful  scepticism  portended  serious,  if 
not  fatal,  consequences.  Yet  all  in  vain 
did  the  sagacious  couple  reason  and  plead 
with  their  headstrong  and  heretical  child. 

"For  a  long  time  Squeaknibble  would 
not  believe  that  there  was  any  such  arch 
fiend  as  a  cat;  but  she  came  to  be  convinced 
to  the  contrary  one  memorable  night,  on 

54 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

which  occasion  she  lost  two  inches  of  her 
beautiful  tail,  and  received  so  terrible  a 
fright  that  for  fully  an  hour  afterward  her 
little  heart  beat  so  violently  as  to  lift  her  off 
her  feet  and  bump  her  head  against  the  top 
of  our  domestic  hole.  The  cat  that  deprived 
my  sister  of  so  large  a  percentage  of  her 
vertebral  colophon  was  the  same  brindled 
ogress  that  nowadays  steals  ever  and  anon 
into  this  room,  crouches  treacherously  be 
hind  the  sofa,  and  feigns  to  be  asleep,  hop 
ing,  forsooth,  that  some  of  us,  heedless  of 
her  hated  presence,  will  venture  within  reach 
of  her  diabolical  claws.  So  enraged  was 
this  ferocious  monster  at  the  escape  of  my 
sister  that  she  ground  her  fangs  viciously 
together,  and  vowed  to  take  no  pleasure  in 
life  until  she  held  in  her  devouring  jaws 
the  innocent  little  mouse  which  belonged 
to  the  mangled  bit  of  tail  she  even  then 
clutched  in  her  remorseless  claws." 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  clock,  "now  that 
you  recall  the  incident,  I  recollect  it  well. 
I  was  here  then,  in  this  very  corner,  and  I 
remember  that  I  laughed  at  the  cat  and 
chided  her  for  her  awkwardness.  My  re- 

55 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

preaches  irritated  her;  she  told  me  that  a 
clock's  duty  was  to  run  itself  down,  not  to 
be  depreciating  the  merits  of  others!  Yes, 
I  recall  the  time;  that  cat's  tongue  is  fully 
as  sharp  as  her  claws." 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,"  said  the  little  mauve 
mouse,  "it  is  a  matter  of  history,  and  there 
fore  beyond  dispute,  that  from  that  very 
moment  the  cat  pined  for  Squeaknibble's 
life;  it  seemed  as  if  that  one  little  two-inch 
taste  of  Squeaknibble's  tail  had  filled  the  cat 
with  a  consuming  passion,  or  appetite,  for 
the  rest  of  Squeaknibble.  So  the  cat  waited 
and  watched  and  hunted  and  schemed  and 
devised  and  did  everything  possible  for  a 
cat — a  cruel  cat — to  do  in  order  to  gain 
her  murderous  ends.  One  night — one  fatal 
Christmas  eve — our  mother  had  undressed 
the  children  for  bed,  and  was  urging  upon 
them  to  go  to  sleep  earlier  than  usual,  since 
she  fully  expected  that  Santa  Glaus  would 
bring  each  of  them  something  very  pala 
table  and  nice  before  morning.  Thereupon 
the  little  dears  whisked  their  cunning  tails, 
pricked  up  their  beautiful  ears,  and  began 
telling  one  another  what  they  hoped  Santa 
56 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

Glaus  would  bring.  One  asked  for  a  slice 
of  Roquefort,  another  for  Neufchatel,  an 
other  for  Sap  Sago,  and  a  fourth  for  Edam ; 
one  expressed  a  preference  for  de  Brie,  while 
another  hoped  to  get  Parmesan;  one  clam 
ored  for  imperial  blue  Stilton,  and  another 
craved  the  fragrant  boon  of  Caprera.  There 
were  fourteen  little  ones  then,  and  conse 
quently  there  were  diverse  opinions  as  "to 
the  kind  of  gift  which  Santa  Glaus  should 
best  bring;  still,  there  was,  as  you  can 
readily  understand,  an  enthusiastic  unanim 
ity  upon  this  point,  namely,  that  the  gift 
should  be  cheese  of  some  brand  or  other. 

"'My  dears,'  said  our  mother,  'what 
matters  it  whether  the  boon  which  Santa 
Glaus  brings  be  royal  English  cheddar  or 
fromage  de  Bricquebec,  Vermont  sage,  or 
Herkimer  County  skim-milk  ?  We  should 
be  content  with  whatsoever  Santa  Glaus 
bestows,  so  long  as  it  be  cheese,  disjoined 
from  all  traps  whatsoever,  unmixed  with 
Paris  green,  and  free  from  glass,  strychnine, 
and  other  harmful  ingredients.  As  for  my 
self,  I  shall  be  satisfied  with  a  cut  of  nice, 
fresh  Western  reserve ;  for  truly  I  recognize 

57 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

in  no  other  viand  or  edible  half  the  fragrance 
or  half  the  gustfulness  to  be  met  with  in  one 
of  these  pale  but  aromatic  domestic  prod 
ucts.  So  run  away  to  your  dreams  now, 
that  Santa  Glaus  may  find  you  sleeping.' 

"The  children  obeyed, — all  but  Squeak- 
nibble.  '  Let  the  others  think  what  they 
please,'  said  she,  'but  /  don't  believe  in 
Santa  Glaus.  I  'm  not  going  to  bed,  either. 
I  'm  going  to  creep  out  of  this  dark  hole 
and  have  a  quiet  romp,  all  by  myself,  in 
the  moonlight.'  Oh,  what  a  vain,  foolish, 
wicked  little  mouse  was  Squeaknibble!  But 
I  will  not  reproach  the  dead;  her  punish 
ment  came  all  too  swiftly.  Now  listen: 
who  do  you  suppose  overheard  her  talking 
so  disrespectfully  of  Santa  Glaus?" 

"Why,  Santa  Glaus  himself,"  said  the 
old  clock. 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  the  little  mauve 
mouse.  "It  was  that  wicked,  murderous 
cat!  Just  as  Satan  lurks  and  lies  in  wait  for 
bad  children,  so  does  the  cruel  cat  lurk  and 
lie  in  wait  for  naughty  little  mice.  And  you 
can  depend  upon  it,  that  when  that  awful 
cat  heard  Squeaknibble  speak  so  disrespect- 
58 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

fully  of  Santa  Glaus,  her  wicked  eyes  glowed 
with  joy,  her  sharp  teeth  watered,  and  her 
bristling  fur  emitted  electric  sparks  as  big  as 
marrowfat  peas.  Then  what  did  that  blood 
thirsty  monster  do  but  scuttle  as  fast  as  she 
could  into  Dear-my-Soul's  room,  leap  up 
into  Dear-my-Soul's  crib,  and  walk  off  with 
the  pretty  little  white  muff  which  Dear-my- 
Soul  used  to  wear  when  she  went  for  a  visit 
to  the  little  girl  in  the  next  block!  What 
upon  earth  did  the  horrid  old  cat  want  with 
Dear-my-Soul's  pretty  little  white  muff? 
Ah,  the  duplicity,  the  diabolical  ingenuity 
of  that  cat!  Listen. 

"In  the  first  place,"  resumed  the  little 
mauve  mouse,  after  a  pause  that  testified 
eloquently  to  the  depth  of  her  emotion,— 
"in  the  first  place,  that  wretched  cat  dressed 
herself  up  in  that  pretty  little  white  muff, 
by  which  you  are  to  understand  that  she 
crawled  through  the  muff  just  so  far  as  to 
leave  her  four  cruel  legs  at  liberty." 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  said  the  old  clock. 

"Then  she  put  on  the  boy  doll's  fur  cap," 
said  the  little  mauve  mouse,  "and  when 
she  was  arrayed  in  the  boy  doll's  fur  cap 
59 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

and  Dear-my-Soul's  pretty  little  white  muff, 
of  course  she  did  n't  look  like  a  cruel  cat  at 
all.  But  whom  did  she  look  like  ?" 

"Like  the  boy  doll,"  suggested  the  old 
clock. 

"No,  no!  "  cried  the  little  mauve  mouse. 

"Like  Dear-my-Soul  ? "  asked  the  old 
clock. 

"How  stupid  you  are!"  exclaimed  the 
little  mauve  mouse.  "Why,  she  looked 
like  Santa  Glaus,  of  course!  " 

"Oh,  yes;  I  see,"  said  the  old  clock. 
"Now  I  begin  to  be  interested;  go  on." 

"Alas!"  sighed  the  little  mauve  mouse, 
"not  much  remains  to  be  told;  but  there  is 
more  of  my  story  left  than  there  was  of 
Squeaknibble  when  that  horrid  cat  crawled 
out  of  that  miserable  disguise.  You  are  to 
understand  that,  contrary  to  her  sagacious 
mother's  injunction,  and  in  notorious  de 
rision  of  the  mooted  coming  of  Santa  Glaus, 
Squeaknibble  issued  from  the  friendly  hole 
in  the  chimney  corner,  and  gambolled  about 
over  this  very  carpet,  and,  I  dare  say,  in  this 
very  moonlight." 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  the  moonbeam, 
60 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

faintly.    "I  am  so  very  old,  and  I  have  seen 
so  many  things  —  I  do  not  know." 

"Right  merrily  was  Squeaknibble  gam 
bolling,"  continued  the  little  mauve  mouse, 
"and  she  had  just  turned  a  double  back 
somersault  without  the  use  of  what  re 
mained  of  her  tail,  when,  all  of  a  sudden, 
she  beheld,  looming  up  like  a  monster  ghost, 
a  figure  all  in  white  fur!  Oh,  how  fright 
ened  she  was,  and  how  her  little  heart  did 
beat!  'Purr,  purr-r-r,'  said  the  ghost  in 
white  fur.  'Oh,  please  don't  hurt  me!' 
pleaded  Squeaknibble.  'No;  I  '11  not  hurt 
you, '  said  the  ghost  in  white  fur ;  'I'm  Santa 
Glaus,  and  I  've  brought  you  a  beautiful  piece 
of  savory  old  cheese,  you  dear  little  mousie, 
you.'  Poor  Squeaknibble  was  deceived;  a 
sceptic  all  her  life,  she  was  at  last  befooled 
by  the  most  palpable  and  most  fatal  of 
frauds.  '  How  good  of  you! '  said  Squeak- 
nibble.  '  I  did  n't  believe  there  was  a  Santa 
Glaus,  and — '  but  before  she  could  say  more 
she  was  seized  by  two  sharp,  cruel  claws 
that  conveyed  her  crushed  body  to  the  mur 
derous  mouth  of  mousedom's  most  malig 
nant  foe.  I  can  dwell  no  longer  upon  this 
61 


A    LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

harrowing  scene.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  ere 
the  morrow's  sun  rose  like  a  big  yellow 
Herkimer  County  cheese  upon  the  spot 
where  that  tragedy  had  been  enacted,  poor 
Squeaknibble  passed  to  that  bourn  whence 
two  inches  of  her  beautiful  tail  had  preceded 
her  by  the  space  of  three  weeks  to  a  day.  As 
for  Santa  Glaus,  when  he  came  that  Christ 
mas  eve,  bringing  morceaux  de  Brie  and 
of  Stilton  for  the  other  little  mice,  he  heard 
with  sorrow  of  Squeaknibble's  fate;  and 
ere  he  departed  he  said  that  in  all  his  expe 
rience  he  had  never  known  of  a  mouse  or 
of  a  child  that  had  prospered  after  once  say 
ing  that  he  did  n't  believe  in  Santa  Glaus." 

"Well,  that  is  a  remarkable  story,"  said 
the  old  clock.  "  But  if  you  believe  in  Santa 
Glaus,  why  are  n't  you  in  bed  ?  " 

"That's  where  I  shall  be  presently,"  an 
swered  the  little  mauve  mouse,  "but  I  must 
have  my  scamper,  you  know.  It  is  very 
pleasant,  I  assure  you,  to  frolic  in  the  light 
of  the  moon;  only  I  cannot  understand  why 
you  are  always  so  cold  and  so  solemn  and 
so  still,  you  pale,  pretty  little  moonbeam." 

"Indeed,  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  so," 
62 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

said  the  moonbeam.  "  But  I  am  very  old, 
and  I  have  travelled  many,  many  leagues, 
and  I  have  seen  wondrous  things.  Some 
times  I  toss  upon  the  ocean,  sometimes  I 
fall  upon  a  slumbering  flower,  sometimes 
I  rest  upon  a  dead  child's  face.  I  see  the 
fairies  at  their  play,  and  I  hear  mothers  sing 
ing  lullabies.  Last  night  I  swept  across  the 
frozen  bosom  of  a  river.  A  woman's  face 
looked  up  at  me;  it  was  the  picture  of  eter 
nal  rest.  'She  is  sleeping,'  said  the  frozen 
river.  '  I  rock  her  to  and  fro,  and  sing  to 
her.  Pass  gently  by,  O  moonbeam;  pass 
gently  by,  lest  you  awaken  her.' ' 

"How  strangely  you  talk,"  said  the  old 
clock.  "Now,  I  '11  warrant  me  that,  if  you 
wanted  to,  you  could  tell  many  a  pretty  and 
wonderful  story.  You  must  know  many  a 
Christmas  tale;  pray  tell  us  one  to  wear 
away  this  night  of  Christmas  watching." 

"I  know  but  one,"  said  the  moonbeam. 
"  I  have  told  it  over  and  over  again,  in  every 
land  and  in  every  home;  yet  I  do  not  weary 
of  it.  It  is  very  simple.  Should  you  like 
to  hear  it?" 

"Indeed  we  should,"  said  the  old  clock; 
63 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

"  but  before  you  begin,  let  me  strike  twelve; 
for  I  should  n't  want  to  interrupt  you." 

When  the  old  clock  had  performed  this 
duty  with  somewhat  more  than  usual  alac 
rity,  the  moonbeam  began  its  story : — 

"Upon  a  time  —  so  long  ago  that  I  can't 
tell  how  long  ago  it  was  —  I  fell  upon  a  hill 
side.  It  was  in  a  far  distant  country ;  this  I 
know,  because,  although  it  was  the  Christ 
mas  time,  it  was  not  in  that  country  as  it  is 
wont  to  be  in  countries  to  the  north.  Hither 
the  snow-king  never  came ;  flowers  bloomed 
all  the  year,  and  at  all  times  the  lambs  found 
pleasant  pasturage  on  the  hillsides.  The 
night  wind  was  balmy,  and  there  was  a 
fragrance  of  cedar  in  its  breath.  There  were 
violets  on  the  hillside,  and  I  fell  amongst 
them  and  lay  there.  I  kissed  them,  and 
they  awakened.  'Ah,  is  it  you,  little  moon 
beam?'  they  said,  and  they  nestled  in  the 
grass  which  the  lambs  had  left  uncropped. 

"A  shepherd  lay  upon  a  broad  stone  on 
the  hillside;  above  him  spread  an  olive-tree, 
old,  ragged,  and  gloomy ;  but  now  it  swayed 
its  rusty  branches  majestically  in  the  shift 
ing  air  of  night.  The  shepherd's  name  was 
64 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

Benoni.  Wearied  with  long  watching,  he 
had  fallen  asleep;  his  crook  had  slipped  from 
his  hand.  Upon  the  hillside,  too,  slept  the 
shepherd's  flock.  I  had  counted  them  again 
and  again;  I  had  stolen  across  their  gentle 
faces  and  brought  them  pleasant  dreams  of 
green  pastures  and  of  cool  water-brooks. 
I  had  kissed  old  Benoni,  too,  as  he  lay  slum 
bering  there;  and  in  his  dreams  he  seemed 
to  see  Israel's  King  come  upon  earth,  and 
in  his  dreams  he  murmured  the  promised 
Messiah's  name. 

"  '  Ah,  is  it  you,  little  moonbeam  ? '  quoth 
the  violets.  '  You  have  come  in  good  time. 
Nestle  here  with  us,  and  see  wonderful 
things  come  to  pass.' 

"'What  are  these  wonderful  things  of 
which  you  speak  ? '  I  asked. 

"  'We  heard  the  old  olive-tree  telling  of 
them  to-night,'  said  the  violets.  '  "  Do  not 
go  to  sleep,  little  violets,"  said  the  old  olive- 
tree,  "for  this  is  Christmas  night,  and  the 
Master  shall  walk  upon  the  hillside  in  the 
glory  of  the  midnight  hour. "  So  we  waited 
and  watched;  one  by  one  the  lambs  fell 
asleep;  one  by  one  the  stars  peeped  out;  the 
65 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

shepherd  nodded  and  crooned  and  crooned 
and  nodded,  and  at  last  he,  too,  went  fast 
asleep,  and  his  crook  slipped  from  his  keep 
ing.  Then  we  called  to  the  old  olive-tree 
yonder,  asking  how  soon  the  midnight  hour 
would  come;  but  all  the  old  olive-tree 
answered  was  "Presently,  presently,"  and 
finally  we,  too,  fell  asleep,  wearied  by  our 
long  watching,  and  lulled  by  the  rocking 
and  swaying  of  the  old  olive-tree  in  the 
breezes  of  the  night' 

"  '  But  who  is  this  Master  ? '  I  asked. 

"  '  A  child,  a  little  child,'  they  answered. 
'He  is  called  the  little  Master  by  the  oth 
ers.  He  comes  here  often,  and  plays  among 
the  flowers  of  the  hillside.  Sometimes 
the  lambs,  gambolling  too  carelessly,  have 
crushed  and  bruised  us  so  that  we  lie  bleed 
ing  and  are  like  to  die;  but  the  little  Master 
heals  our  wounds  and  refreshes  us  onceagain. ' 

"I  marvelled  much  to  hear  these  things. 
'  The  midnight  hour  is  at  hand,'  said  I,  '  and 
I  will  abide  with  you  to  see  this  little  Master 
of  whom  you  speak. '  So  we  nestled  among 
the  verdure  of  the  hillside,  and  sang  songs 
one  to  another. 

66 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

"'Come  away!'  called  the  night  wind; 
'  I  know  a  beauteous  sea  not  far  hence,  upon 
whose  bosom  you  shall  float,  float,  float 
away  out  into  the  mists  and  clouds,  if  you 
will  come  with  me.' 

"But  I  hid  under  the  violets  and  amid 
the  tall  grass,  that  the  night  wind  might 
not  woo  me  with  its  pleading.  '  Ho,  there, 
old  olive-tree!'  cried  the  violets;  'do  you 
see  the  little  Master  coming?  Is  not  the 
midnight  hour  at  hand  ?' 

"  'I  can  see  the  town  yonder,'  said  the 
old  olive-tree.  'A  star  beams  bright  over 
Bethlehem,  the  iron  gates  swing  open,  and 
the  little  Master  comes.' 

"  Two  children  came  to  the  hillside.  The 
one,  older  than  his  comrade,  was  Dimas, 
the  son  of  Benoni.  He  was  rugged  and 
sinewy,  and  over  his  brown  shoulders  was 
flung  a  goat-skin;  a  leathern  cap  did  not 
confine  his  long,  dark  curly  hair.  The  other 
child  was  he  whom  they  called  the  little 
Master;  about  his  slender  form  clung  rai 
ment  white  as  snow,  and  around  his  face 
of  heavenly  innocence  fell  curls  of  golden 
yellow.  So  beautiful  a  child  1  had  not  seen 
67 


A    LITTLE    BOOK   OF 

before,  nor  have  I  ever  since  seen  such  as  he. 
And  as  they  came  together  to  the  hillside, 
there  seemed  to  glow  about  the  little  Mas 
ter's  head  a  soft  white  light,  as  if  the  moon 
had  sent  its  tenderest,  fairest  beams  to  kiss 
those  golden  curls. 

"  'What  sound  was  that?'  cried  Dimas, 
for  he  was  exceeding  fearful. 

"  '  Have  no  fear,  Dimas, '  said  the  little  Mas 
ter.  '  Give  me  thy  hand,  and  I  will  lead  thee. ' 

"  Presently  they  came  to  the  rock  whereon 
Benoni,  the  shepherd,  lay;  and  they  stood 
under  the  old  olive-tree,  and  the  old  olive- 
tree  swayed  no  longer  in  the  night  wind, 
but  bent  its  branches  reverently  in  the 
presence  of  the  little  Master.  It  seemed 
as  if  the  wind,  too,  stayed  in  its  shifting 
course  just  then ;  for  suddenly  there  was  a 
solemn  hush,  and  you  could  hear  no  noise, 
except  that  in  his  dreams  Benoni  spoke  the 
Messiah's  name. 

"  'Thy  father  sleeps,'  said  the  little  Mas 
ter,  '  and  it  is  well  that  it  is  so ;  for  that  I 
love  thee,  Dimas,  and  that  thou  shalt  walk 
with  me  in  my  Father's  kingdom,  I  would 
show  thee  the  glories  of  my  birthright.' 
68 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

"Then  all  at  once  sweet  music  filled  the 
air,  and  light,  greater  than  the  light  of  day, 
illumined  the  sky  and  fell  upon  all  that  hill 
side.  The  heavens  opened,  and  angels, 
singing  joyous  songs,  walked  to  the  earth. 
More  wondrous  still,  the  stars,  falling  from 
their  places  in  the  sky,  clustered  upon  the 
old  olive-tree,  and  swung  hither  and  thither 
like  colored  lanterns.  The  flowers  of  the 
hillside  all  awakened,  and  they,  too,  danced 
and  sang.  The  angels,  coming  hither,  hung 
gold  and  silver  and  jewels  and  precious 
stones  upon  the  old  olive,  where  swung  the 
stars;  so  that  the  glory  of  that  sight,  though 
I  might  live  forever,  I  shall  never  see  again. 
When  Dimas  heard  and  saw  these  things  he 
fell  upon  his  knees,  and  catching  the  hem 
of  the  little  Master's  garment,  he  kissed  it. 

"'Greater  joy  than  this  shall  be  thine, 
Dimas,'  said  the  little  Master;  'but  first 
must  all  things  be  fulfilled.' 

"All  through  that  Christmas  night  did 
the  angels  come  and  go  with  their  sweet 
anthems;  all  through  that  Christmas  night 
did  the  stars  dance  and  sing;  and  when  it 
came  my  time  to  steal  away,  the  hillside 
69 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

was  still  beautiful  with  the  glory  and  the 
music  of  heaven." 

"Well,  is  that  all?"  asked  the  old 
clock. 

"No,"  said  the  moonbeam;  "but  I  am 
nearly  done.  The  years  went  on.  Some 
times  I  tossed  upon  the  ocean's  bosom, 
sometimes  I  scampered  o'er  a  battle-field, 
sometimes  I  lay  upon  a  dead  child's  face. 
I  heard  the  voices  of  Darkness  and  mothers' 
lullabies  and  sick  men's  prayers, —  and  so 
the  years  went  on. 

"  I  fell  one  night  upon  a  hard  and  fur 
rowed  face.  It  was  of  ghostly  pallor.  A 
thief  was  dying  on  the  cross,  and  this  was 
his  wretched  face.  About  the  cross  stood 
men  with  staves  and  swords  and  spears, 
but  none  paid  heed  unto  the  thief.  Some 
what  beyond  this  cross  another  was  lifted 
up,  and  upon  it  was  stretched  a  human 
body  my  light  fell  not  upon.  But  I  heard 
a  voice  that  somewhere  I  had  heard  be 
fore, —  though  where  I  did  not  know, — 
and  this  voice  blessed  those  that  railed  and 
jeered  and  shamefully  entreated.  And  sud 
denly  the  voice  called  '  Dimas,  Dimas!' 
70 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

and  the  thief  upon  whose  hardened  face  I 
rested  made  answer. 

"Then  I  saw  that  it  was  Dimas;  yet  to 
this  wicked  criminal  there  remained  but  lit 
tle  of  the  shepherd  child  whom  I  had  seen 
in  all  his  innocence  upon  the  hillside.  Long 
years  of  sinful  life  had  seared  their  marks 
into  his  face;  yet  now,  at  the  sound  of  that 
familiar  voice,  somewhat  of  the  old-time 
boyish  look  came  back,  and  in  the  yearning 
of  the  anguished  eyes  I  seemed  to  see  the 
shepherd's  son  again. 

"'The  Master!'  cried  Dimas,  and  he 
stretched  forth  his  neck  that  he  might  see 
him  that  spake. 

"'O  Dimas,  how  art  thou  changed!' 
cried  the  Master,  yet  there  was  in  his  voice 
no  tone  of  rebuke  save  that  which  cometh 
of  love. 

"Then  Dimas  wept,  and  in  that  hour 
he  forgot  his  pain.  And  the  Master's  con 
soling  voice  and  the  Master's  presence  there 
wrought  in  the  dying  criminal  such  a  new 
spirit,  that  when  at  last  his  head  fell  upon 
his  bosom,  and  the  men  about  the  cross  said 
that  he  was  dead,  it  seemed  as  if  I  shined 

7' 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

not  upon  a  felon's  face,  but  upon  the  face  of 
the  gentle  shepherd  lad,  the  son  of  Benoni. 
"And  shining  on  that  dead  and  peaceful 
face,  I  bethought  me  of  the  little  Master's 
words  that  he  had  spoken  under  the  old 
olive-tree  upon  the  hillside:  '  Your  eyes  be 
hold  the  promised  glory  now,  O  Dimas,'  I 
whispered,  '  for  with  the  Master  you  walk 
in  Paradise.' ' 

Ah,  little  Dear-my-Soul,  you  know — you 
know  whereof  the  moonbeam  spake.  The 
shepherd's  bones  are  dust,  the  flocks  are 
scattered,  the  old  olive-tree  is  gone,  the  flow 
ers  of  the  hillside  are  withered,  and  none 
knoweth  where  the  grave  of  Dimas  is  made. 
But  last  night,  again,  there  shined  a  star 
over  Bethlehem,  and  the  angels  descended 
from  the  sky  to  earth,  and  the  stars  sang 
together  in  glory.  And  the  bells, —  hear 
them,  little  Dear-my-Soul,  how  sweetly  they 
are  ringing, —  the  bells  bear  us  the  good 
tidings  of  great  joy  this  Christmas  morning, 
that  our  Christ  is  born,  and  that  with  him 
he  bringeth  peace  on  earth  and  good-will 
toward  men. 

1888. 

72 


THE    DIVELL'S    CHRYSTMASS. 


IT  befell  that  on  a  time  ye  Divell  did  walk 
to  and  fro  upon  ye  earth,  having  in  his 
mind  full  evill  cogitations  how  that  he  might 
do  despight;  for  of  soche  nature  is  ye  Divell, 
and  ever  hath  been,  that  continually  doth  he 
go  about  among  men,  being  so  dispositioned 
that  it  sufficeth  him  not  that  men  sholde  of 
their  own  frowardness,  and  by  cause  of  the 
guile  born  in  them,  turn  unto  his  wicked 
ness,  but  rather  that  he  sholde  by  his  crewel 
artifices  and  diabolical  machinations  tempt 
them  at  all  times  and  upon  every  hand  to 
do  his  fiendly  plaisaunce. 

But  it  so  fortuned  that  this  time  wherein 
ye  Divell  so  walked  upon  ye  earth  was  ye 
Chrystrnass  time;  and  wit  ye  well  that  how 
evill  soever  ye  harte  of  man  ben  at  other 
seasons,  it  is  tofilled  at  ye  Chrystrnass  time 
75 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

with  charity  and  love,  like  as  if  it  ben  sanc 
tified  by  ye  exceeding  holiness  of  that  feast. 
Leastwise,  this  moche  we  know,  that, 
whereas  at  other  times  envy  and  worldli- 
ness  do  prevail,  for  a  verity  our  natures  are 
toched  at  ye  Chrystmass  time  as  by  ye  hand 
of  divinity,  and  conditioned  for  merciful 
deeds  unto  our  fellow  kind.  Right  wroth 
was  ye  Divell,  therefore,  when  that  he  knew 
this  ben  ye  Chrystmass  time.  And  as  rage 
doth  often  confirm  in  ye  human  harte  an 
evill  purpose,  so  was  ye  Divell  now  more 
diabolically  minded  to  work  his  unclean 
will,  and  full  hejeously  fell  he  to  roar  and 
lash  his  ribald  legs  with  his  poyson  taile. 
But  ye  Divell  did  presently  conceive  that 
naught  might  he  accomplish  by  this  means, 
since  that  men,  affrighted  by  his  roaring  and 
astonied  by  ye  fumes  of  brimstone  and  ye 
sulphur  flames  issuing  from  his  mouth, 
wolde  flee  therefrom;  whereas  by  subtile 
craft  and  by  words  of  specious  guile  it  more 
frequently  befalls  that  ye  Divell  seduceth 
men  and  lureth  them  into  his  toils.  So  then 
ye  Divell  did  in  a  little  season  feign  to  be  in 
a  full  plaisaunt  mind  and  of  sweet  purpose; 
76 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

and  when  that  he  had  girt  him  about  with 
an  hermit's  cloak,  so  that  none  might  see 
his  cloven  feet  and  his  poyson  taile,  right 
briskly  did  he  fare  him  on  his  journey,  and 
he  did  sing  ye  while  a  plaisaunt  tune,  like  he 
had  ben  full  of  joyous  contentation. 

Now  it  befell  that  presently  in  his  journey 
he  did  meet  with  a  frere,  Dan  Dennyss,  an 
holy  man  that  fared  him  to  a  neighboring 
town  for  deeds  of  charity  and  godliness. 
Unto  him  spake  ye  Divell  full  courteysely, 
and  required  of  him  that  he  might  bear  him 
company;  to  which  ye  frere  gave  answer  in 
seemly  wise,  that,  if  so  be  that  he  ben  of 
friendly  disposition,  he  wolde  make  him 
joy  of  his  companionship  and  conversation. 
Then,  whiles  that  they  journeyed  together, 
began  ye  Divell  to  discourse  of  theologies 
and  hidden  mysteries,  and  of  conjurations, 
and  of  negromancy  and  of  magick,  and  of 
Chaldee,  and  of  astrology,  and  of  chymistry, 
and  of  other  occult  and  forbidden  sciences, 
wherein  ye  Divell  and  all  that  ply  his  dam 
nable  arts  are  mightily  learned  and  practised. 
Now  wit  ye  well  that  this  frere,  being  an 
holy  man  and  a  simple,  and  having  an  eye 
77 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

single  to  ye  blessed  works  of  his  calling,  was 
presently  mightily  troubled  in  his  mind  by 
ye  artifices  of  ye  Divell,  and  his  harte  began 
to  waver  and  to  be  filled  with  miserable 
doublings  ;  for  knowing  nothing  of  ye 
things  whereof  ye  Divell  spake,  he  colde 
not  make  answer  thereto,  nor,  being  of 
godly  cogitation  and  practice,  had  he  ye 
confutations  wherewith  to  meet  ye  abhomi- 
nable  argumentations  of  ye  fiend. 

Yet  (and  now  shall  I  tell  you  of  a  special 
Providence)  it  did  fortune,  whiles  yet  ye 
Divell  discoursed  in  this  profane  wise,  there 
was  vouchsafed  unto  ye  frere  a  certain  power 
to  resist  ye  evill  that  environed  him ;  for  of  a 
sodaine  he  did  cast  his  doublings  and  his 
misgivings  to  ye  winds,  and  did  fall  upon  ye 
Divell  and  did  buffet  him  full  sore,  crying, 
"Thou  art  ye  Divell!  Get  thee  gone!" 
And  ye  frere  plucked  ye  cloake  from  ye 
Divell  and  saw  ye  cloven  feet  and  ye  poyson 
taile,  and  straightway  ye  Divell  ran  roaring 
away.  But  ye  frere  fared  upon  his  journey, 
for  that  he  had  had  a  successful  issue  from 
this  grevious  temptation,  with  thanksgiving 
and  prayse. 

78 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

Next  came  ye  Divell  into  a  town  wherein 
were  many  people  going  to  and  fro  upon 
works  of  charity,  and  doing  righteous  prac 
tices;  and  sorely  did  it  repent  ye  Divell 
when  that  he  saw  ye  people  bent  upon  ye 
giving  of  alms  and  ye  doing  of  charitable 
deeds.  Therefore  with  mighty  diligence  did 
ye  Divell  apply  himself  to  poyson  ye  minds 
of  ye  people,  shewing  unto  them  in  artful 
wise  how  that  by  idleness  or  by  righteous 
dispensation  had  ye  poore  become  poore, 
and  that,  soche  being  ye  will  of  God,  it  was 
an  evill  and  rebellious  thing  against  God  to 
seeke  to  minister  consolation  unto  these 
poore  peoples.  Soche  like  specious  argu 
mentations  did  ye  Divell  use  to  gain  his 
diabolical  ends;  but  by  means  of  a  grace 
whereof  none  then  knew  ye  source,  these 
men  and  these  women  unto  whom  ye  Divell 
spake  his  hejeous  heresies  presently  discov 
ered  force  to  withstand  these  fiendly  temp 
tations,  and  to  continue  in  their  Chrystianly 
practices,  to  ye  glory  of  their  faith  and  to  ye 
benefite  of  ye  needy,  but  to  ye  exceeding 
discomfiture  of  ye  Divell;  for  ye  which  dis 
comfiture  I  do  give  hearty  thanks,  and  so 
79 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

also  shall  all  of  you,  if  so  be  that  your  hartes 
within  you  be  of  rightful  disposition. 

All  that  day  long  fared  ye  Divell  to  and 
fro  among  ye  people  of  ye  town,  but  none 
colde  he  bring  into  his  hellish  way  of  cogita 
tion.  Nor  do  I  count  this  to  be  a  marvellous 
thing;  for,  as  I  myself  have  herein  shewn 
and  as  eche  of  us  doth  truly  know,  how  can 
there  be  a  place  for  ye  Divell  upon  earth 
during  this  Chrystmass  time  when  in  ye 
very  air  that  we  breathe  abideth  a  certain 
love  and  concord  sent  of  heaven  for  the  con- 
troul  and  edification  of  mankind,  filling  hu 
man  hartes  with  peace  and  inclining  human 
hands  to  ye  delectable  and  blessed  employ 
ments  of  charity  ?  Nay,  but  you  shall  know 
that  all  this  very  season  whereof  1  speak 
ye  holy  Chrystchilde  himself  did  follow  ye 
Divell  upon  earth,  forefending  the  crewel 
evills  which  ye  Divell  fain  wolde  do  and 
girding  with  confidence  and  love  ye  else 
frail  natures  of  men.  Soothly  it  is  known 
of  common  report  among  you  that  when  ye 
Chrystmass  season  comes  upon  ye  earth  there 
cometh  with  it  also  the  spirit  of  our  Chryst 
himself,  that  in  ye  similitude  of  a  little  childe 
80 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

descendeth  from  heaven  and  walketh  among 
men.  And  if  so  be  that  by  any  chance  ye 
Divell  is  minded  to  issue  from  his  foul  pit  at 
soche  a  time,  wit  ye  well  that  wheresoever 
ye  fiend  fareth  to  do  his  diabolical  plaisaunce 
there  also  close  at  hand  followeth  ye  gentle 
Chrystchilde ;  so  that  ye  Divell,  try  how 
hard  soever  he  may,  hath  no  power  at 
soche  a  time  over  the  hartes  of  men. 

Nay,  but  you  shall  know  furthermore  that 
of  soche  sweete  quality  and  of  so  great  effi 
cacy  is  this  heavenly  spirit  of  charity  at  ye 
Chrystmass  season,  that  oftentimes  is  ye 
Divell  himself  made  to  do  a  kindly  deed. 
So  at  this  time  of  ye  which  I  you  tell,  ye 
Divell,  walking  upon  ye  earth  with  evill  pur 
pose,  became  finally  overcome  by  ye  gra 
cious  desire  to  give  an  alms;  but  nony  alms 
had  ye  Divell  to  give,  sith  it  is  wisely  or 
dained  that  ye  Divell's  offices  shall  be  con 
fined  to  his  domain.  Right  grievously 
tormented  therefore  was  ye  Divell,  in  that 
he  had  nought  of  alms  to  bestow;  but  when 
presently  he  did  meet  with  a  beggar  childe 
that  besought  him  charity,  ye  Divell  whipped 
out  a  knife  and  cut  off  his  own  taile,  which 
81 


A    LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

taile  ye  Divell  gave  to  ye  beggar  childe,  for 
he  had  not  else  to  give  for  a  lyttle  trinket  toy 
to  make  merry  with.  Now  wit  ye  well  that 
this  poyson  instrument  brought  no  evill  to 
ye  beggar  childe,  for  by  a  sodaine  miracle  it 
ben  changed  into  a  flowre  of  gold,  ye  which 
gave  great  joy  unto  ye  beggar  childe  and 
unto  all  them  that  saw  this  miracle  how  that 
it  had  ben  wrought,  but  not  by  ye  Divell. 
Then  returned  ye  Divell  unto  his  pit  of  fire; 
and  since  that  day,  whereupon  befell  this 
thing  of  which  I  speak,  ye  Divell  hath  had 
nony  taile  at  all,  as  you  that  hath  scene  ye 
same  shall  truly  testify. 

But  all  that  day  long  walked  ye  Chryst- 
childe  upon  ye  earth,  unseen  to  ye  people 
but  toching  their  hartes  with  his  swete  love 
and  turning  their  hands  to  charity;  and  all 
felt  that  ye  Chrystchilde  was  with  them. 
So  it  was  plaisaunt  to  do  ye  Chrystchilde's 
will,  to  succor  ye  needy,  to  comfort  ye 
afflicted,  and  to  lift  up  ye  oppressed.  Most 
plaisauntest  of  all  was  it  to  make  merry  with 
ye  lyttle  children,  sithence  of  soche  is  ye 
kingdom  whence  ye  Chrystchilde  cometh. 

Behold,  ye  season  is  again  at  hand;  once 
82 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

more  ye  snows  of  winter  lie  upon  all  ye 
earth,  and  all  Chrystantie  is  arrayed  to  the 
holy  feast. 

Presently  shall  ye  star  burn  with  exceed 
ing  brightness  in  ye  east,  ye  sky  shall  be 
full  of  swete  music,  ye  angels  shall  descend 
to  earth  with  singing,  and  ye  bells  —  ye 
joyous  Chrystmass  bells  —  shall  tell  us  of  ye 
babe  that  was  born  in  Bethlehem. 

Come  to  us  now,  O  gentle  Chrystchilde, 
and  walke  among  us  peoples  of  ye  earth; 
enwheel  us  round  about  with  thy  protecting 
care;  forefend  all  envious  thoughts  and  evil 
deeds;  toche  thou  our  hearts  with  the  glory 
of  thy  love,  and  quicken  us  to  practices  of 
peace,  good-will,  and  charity  meet  for  thy 
approval  and  acceptation. 

1888. 


83 


£ijc  fountain  anu  tl)c  ^ca 


THE   MOUNTAIN   AND   THE   SEA 


ONCE  upon  a  time  the  air,  the  mountain, 
and  the  sea  lived  undisturbed  upon  all 
the  earth.  The  mountain  alone  was  immov 
able;  he  stood  always  here  upon  his  rocky 
foundation,  and  the  sea  rippled  and  foamed 
at  his  feet,  while  the  air  danced  freely  over 
his  head  and  about  his  grim  face.  It  came  to 
pass  that  both  the  sea  and  the  air  loved  the 
mountain,  but  the  mountain  loved  the  sea. 

"Dance  on  forever,  O  air, "said  the  moun 
tain  ;  "dance  on  and  sing  your  merry  songs. 
But  I  love  the  gentle  sea,  who  in  sweet  humil 
ity  crouches  at  my  feet  or  playfully  dashes 
her  white  spray  against  my  brown  bosom." 

Now  the  sea  was  full  of  joy  when  she  heard 
these  words,  and  her  thousand  voices  sang 
softly  with  delight.  But  the  air  was  filled 

87 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

with  rage  and  jealousy,  and  she  swore  a  ter 
rible  revenge. 

"The  mountain  shall  not  wed  the  sea," 
muttered  the  envious  air.  "Enjoy  your 
triumph  while  you  may,  O  slumberous  sis 
ter;  I  will  steal  you  from  your  haughty 
lover! " 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  ever  after  that 
the  air  each  day  caught  up  huge  parts  of  the 
sea  and  sent  them  floating  forever  through 
the  air  in  the  shape  of  clouds.  So  each  day 
the  sea  receded  from  the  feet  of  the  moun 
tain,  and  her  tuneful  waves  played  no  more 
around  his  majestic  base. 

"Whither  art  thou  going,  my  love  ?"  cried 
the  mountain  in  dismay. 

"She  is  false  to  thee,"  laughed  the  air, 
mockingly.  "She  is  going  to  another  love 
far  away." 

But  the  mountain  would  not  believe  it. 
He  towered  his  head  aloft  and  cried  more 
beseechingly  than  before:  "Oh,  whither  art 
thou  going,  my  beloved  ?  I  do  not  hear  thy 
sweet  voice,  nor  do  thy  soft  white  arms 
compass  me  about." 

Then  the  sea  cried  out  in  an  agony  of  help- 
88 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

less  love.  But  the  mountain  heard  her  not, 
for  the  air  refused  to  bring  the  words  she  said. 

' '  She  is  false ! "  whispered  the  air.  ' '  I  alone 
am  true  to  thee." 

But  the  mountain  believed  her  not.  Day 
after  day  he  reared  his  massive  head  aloft 
and  turned  his  honest  face  to  the  receding 
sea  and  begged  her  to  return ;  day  after  day 
the  sea  threw  up  her  snowy  arms  and  uttered 
the  wildest  lamentations,  but  the  mountain 
heard  her  not;  and  day  by  day  the  sea  re 
ceded  farther  and  farther  from  the  mountain's 
base.  Where  she  once  had  spread  her  fair 
surface  appeared  fertile  plains  and  verdant 
groves  all  peopled  with  living  things,  whose 
voices  the  air  brought  to  the  mountain's  ears 
in  the  hope  that  they  might  distract  the 
mountain  from  his  mourning. 

But  the  mountain  would  not  be  comforted ; 
he  lifted  his  sturdy  head  aloft,  and  his  sor 
rowing  face  was  turned  ever  toward  the 
fleeting  object  of  his  love.  Hills,  valleys, 
forests,  plains,  and  other  mountains  sepa 
rated  them  now,  but  over  and  beyond  them 
all  he  could  see  her  fair  face  lifted  pleadingly 
toward  him,  while  her  white  arms  tossed 
89 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

wildly  to  and  fro.  But  he  did  not  know 
what  words  she  said,  for  the  envious  air 
would  not  bear  her  messages  to  him. 

Then  many  ages  came  and  went,  until 
now  the  sea  was  far  distant,  so  very  distant 
that  the  mountain  could  not  behold  her,— 
nay,  had  he  been  ten  thousand  times  as  lofty 
he  could  not  have  seen  her,  she  was  so  far 
away.  But  still,  as  of  old,  the  mountain  stood 
with  his  majestic  head  high  in  the  sky,  and 
his  face  turned  whither  he  had  seen  her  fading 
like  a  dream  away. 

"Come back,  come  back,  O  my  beloved !  " 
he  cried  and  cried. 

And  the  sea,  a  thousand  miles  or  more 
away,  still  thought  forever  of  the  mountain. 
Vainly  she  peered  over  the  western  horizon 
for  a  glimpse  of  his  proud  head  and  honest 
face.  The  horizon  was  dark.  Her  lover  was 
far  beyond;  forests,  plains,  hills,  valleys,  riv 
ers,  and  other  mountains  intervened.  Her 
watching  was  as  hopeless  as  her  love. 

"She  is  false!"  whispered  the  air  to  the 
mountain.  "  She  is  false,  and  she  has  gone 
to  another  lover.  I  alone  am  true!  " 

But  the  mountain  believed  her  not.     And 
90 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

one  day  clouds  came  floating  through  the  sky 
and  hovered  around  the  mountain's  crest. 

"Who  art  thou,"  cried  the  mountain,— 
"who  art  thou  that  thou  fill'st  me  with 
such  a  subtile  consolation  ?  Thy  breath  is 
like  my  beloved's,  and  thy  kisses  are  like 
her  kisses." 

"We  come  from  the  sea,"  answered  the 
clouds.  "She  loves  thee,  and  she  has  sent 
us  to  bid  thee  be  courageous,  for  she  will 
come  back  to  thee." 

Then  the  clouds  covered  the  mountain 
and  bathed  him  with  the  glory  of  the  sea's 
true  love.  The  air  raged  furiously,  but  all 
in  vain.  Ever  after  that  the  clouds  came 
each  day  with  love-messages  from  the  sea, 
and  oftentimes  the  clouds  bore  back  to  the 
distant  sea  the  tender  words  the  mountain 
spoke. 

And  so  the  ages  come  and  go,  the  moun 
tain  rearing  his  giant  head  aloft,  and  his 
brown,  honest  face  turned  whither  the  sea 
departed ;  the  sea  stretching  forth  her  arms 
to  the  distant  mountain  and  repeating  his 
dear  name  with  her  thousand  voices. 

Stand  on  the  beach  and  look  upon  the 

9> 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

sea's  majestic  calm  and  hear  her  murmur- 
ings;  or  see  her  when,  in  the  frenzy  of  her 
hopeless  love,  she  surges  wildly  and  tosses 
her  white  arms  and  shrieks, — then  you  shall 
know  how  the  sea  loves  the  distant  moun 
tain. 

The  mountain  is  old  and  sear;  the  storms 
have  beaten  upon  his  breast,  and  great  scars 
and  seams  and  wrinkles  are  on  his  sturdy 
head  and  honest  face  But  he  towers  ma 
jestically  aloft,  and  he  looks  always  toward 
the  distant  sea  and  waits  for  her  promised 
coming. 

And  so  the  ages  come  and  go,  but  love 
is  eternal. 

1886. 


Cfje  iloto  anii  t(]c  Cttolet 


THE  ROBIN  AND  THE  VIOLET 


ONCE  upon  a  time  a  robin  lived  in  the 
greenwood.  Of  all  the  birds  his  breast 
was  the  brightest,  his  music  was  the  sweet 
est,  and  his  life  was  the  merriest.  Every 
morning  and  evening  he  perched  himself 
among  the  berries  of  the  linden-tree,  and 
carolled  a  song  that  made  the  whole  forest 
joyous;  and  all  day  long  he  fluttered  among 
the  flowers  and  shrubbery  of  the  wild-wood, 
and  twittered  gayly  to  the  brooks,  the  ferns, 
and  the  lichens. 

A  violet  grew  among  the  mosses  at  the 
foot  of  the  linden-tree  where  lived  the  robin. 
She  was  so  very  tiny  and  so  very  modest 
that  few  knew  there  was  such  a  pretty  little 
creature  in  the  world.  Withal  she  was  so 
beautiful  and  so  gentle  that  those  who  knew 
the  violet  loved  her  very  dearly. 
95 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

The  south  wind  came  wooing  the  violet. 
He  danced  through  the  shrubbery  and  ferns, 
and  lingered  on  the  velvet  moss  where  the 
little  flower  grew.  But  when  he  kissed  her 
pretty  face  and  whispered  to  her,  she  hung 
her  head  and  said,  "No,  no;  it  cannot  be." 

"Nay,  little  violet,  do  not  be  so  cruel," 
pleaded  the  south  wind;  "let  me  bear  you 
as  my  bride  away  to  my  splendid  home  in 
the  south,  where  all  is  warmth  and  sun 
shine  always." 

But  the  violet  kept  repeating,  "No,  it 
cannot  be;  no,  it  cannot  be,"  till  at  last 
the  south  wind  stole  away  with  a  very 
heavy  heart. 

And  the  rose  exclaimed,  in  an  outburst 
of  disgustful  indignation:  "What  a  foolish 
violet!  How  silly  of  her  to  refuse  such  a 
wooer  as  the  south  wind,  who  has  a  beauti 
ful  home  and  a  patrimony  of  eternal  warmth 
and  sunshine! " 

But  the  violet,  as  soon  as  the  south  wind 
had  gone,  looked  up  at  the  robin  perched 
in  the  linden-tree  and  singing  his  clear 
song;  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  blushed  and 
as  if  she  were  thrilled  with  a  great  emotion 
96 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

as  she  beheld  him.  But  the  robin  did  not 
see  the  violet.  His  eyes  were  turned  the 
other  way,  and  he  sang  to  the  clouds  in  the 
sky. 

The  brook  o'erleaped  its  banks  one  day, 
and  straying  toward  the  linden-tree,  it  was 
amazed  at  the  loveliness  of  the  violet.  Never 
had  it  seen  any  flower  half  so  beautiful. 

"Oh,  come  and  be  my  bride,"  cried  the 
brook.  "  I  am  young  and  small  now,  but 
presently  you  shall  see  me  grow  to  a  mighty 
river  whose  course  no  human  power  can 
direct,  and  whose  force  nothing  can  resist. 
Cast  thyself  upon  my  bosom,  sweet  violet, 
and  let  us  float  together  to  that  great  destiny 
which  awaits  me." 

But  the  violet  shuddered  and  recoiled  and 
said:  "Nay,  nay,  impetuous  brook,  I  will 
not  be  your  bride."  So,  with  many  mur 
murs  and  complaints,  the  brook  crept  back 
to  its  jealous  banks  and  resumed  its  devious 
and  prattling  way  to  the  sea. 

"Bless  me '."cried  the  daisy,  "only  to 
think  of  that  silly  violet's  refusing  the  brook ! 
Was  there  ever  another  such  piece  of  folly! 
Where  else  is  there  a  flower  that  would  not 

97 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

have  been  glad  to  go  upon  such  a  wonder 
ful  career?  Oh,  how  short-sighted  some 
folks  are! " 

But  the  violet  paid  no  heed  to  these  words ; 
she  looked  steadfastly  up  into  the  foliage  of 
the  linden-tree  where  the  robin  was  carol 
ling.  The  robin  did  not  see  the  violet;  he 
was  singing  to  the  tops  of  the  fir-trees  over 
yonder. 

The  days  came  and  went.  The  robin 
sang  and  fluttered  in  the  greenwood,  and 
the  violet  bided  among  the  mosses  at  the 
foot  of  the  linden;  and  although  the  violet's 
face  was  turned  always  upward  to  where 
the  robin  perched  and  sang,  the  robin  never 
saw  the  tender  little  flower. 

One  day  a  huntsman  came  through  the 
greenwood,  and  an  arrow  from  his  cruel 
bow  struck  the  robin  and  pierced  his  heart. 
The  robin  was  carolling  in  the  linden,  but 
his  song  was  ended  suddenly,  and  the  in 
nocent  bird  fell  dying  from  the  tree.  "Oh, 
it  is  only  a  robin,"  said  the  huntsman,  and 
with  a  careless  laugh  he  went  on  his  way. 

The  robin  lay  upon  the  mosses  at  the  foot 
of  the  linden,  close  beside  the  violet.  But 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

he  neither  saw  nor  heard  anything,  for  his 
life  was  nearly  gone.  The  violet  tried  to 
bind  his  wound  and  stay  the  flow  of  his 
heart's  blood,  but  her  tender  services  were 
vain.  The  robin  died  without  having  seen 
her  sweet  face  or  heard  her  gentle  voice. 

Then  the  other  birds  of  the  greenwood 
came  to  mourn  over  their  dead  friend.  The 
moles  and  the  mice  dug  a  little  grave  and 
laid  the  robin  in  it,  after  which  the  birds 
brought  lichens  and  leaves,  and  covered  the 
dead  body,  and  heaped  earth  over  all,  and 
made  a  great  lamentation.  But  when  they 
went  away,  the  violet  remained;  and  after 
the  sun  had  set,  and  the  greenwood  all  was 
dark,  the  violet  bent  over  the  robin's  grave 
and  kissed  it,  and  sang  to  the  dead  robin. 
And  the  violet  watched  by  the  robin's  grave 
for  weeks  and  months,  her  face  pressed  for 
ward  toward  that  tiny  mound,  and  her  gen 
tle  voice  always  singing  softly  and  sweetly 
about  the  love  she  never  had  dared  to  tell. 

Often  after  that  the  south  wind  and  the 
brook  came  wooing  her,  but  she  never 
heard  them,  or,  if  she  heard  them,  she  did 
not  answer.  The  vine  that  lived  near  the 

99 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

chestnut  yonder  said  the  violet  was  greatly 
changed;  that  from  being  a  merry,  happy 
thing,  she  had  grown  sad  and  reticent;  she 
used  to  hold  up  her  head  as  proudly  as  the 
others,  but  now  she  seemed  broken  and 
weary.  The  shrubs  and  flowers  talked  it  all 
over  many  and  many  a  time,but  none  of  them 
could  explain  the  violet's  strange  conduct. 

It  was  autumn  now,  and  the  greenwood 
was  not  what  it  had  been.  The  birds  had 
flown  elsewhere  to  be  the  guests  of  the 
storks  during  the  winter  months,  the  rose 
had  run  away  to  be  the  bride  of  the  south 
wind,  and  the  daisy  had  wedded  the  brook 
and  was  taking  a  bridal  tour  to  the  seaside 
watering-places.  But  the  violet  still  lingered 
in  the  greenwood,  and  kept  her  vigil  at  the 
grave  of  the  robin.  She  was  pale  and 
drooping,  but  still  she  watched  and  sang 
over  the  spot  where  her  love  lay  buried. 
Each  day  she  grew  weaker  and  paler.  The 
oak  begged  her  to  come  and  live  among 
the  warm  lichens  that  protected  him  from 
the  icy  breath  of  the  storm-king,  but  the 
violet  chose  to  watch  and  sing  over  the 
robin's  grave. 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

One  morning,  after  a  night  of  exceeding 
darkness  and  frost,  the  boisterous  north 
wind  came  trampling  through  the  green 
wood. 

"I  have  come  for  the  violet,"  he  cried; 
"she  would  not  have  my  fair  brother,  but 
she  must  go  with  me,  whether  it  pleases  her 
or  not! " 

But  when  he  came  to  the  foot  of  the  lin 
den-tree  his  anger  was  changed  to  com 
passion.  The  violet  was  dead,  and  she  lay 
upon  the  robin's  grave.  Her  gentle  face 
rested  close  to  the  little  mound,  as  if,  in  her 
last  moment,  the  faithful  flower  had  stretched 
forth  her  lips  to  kiss  the  dust  that  covered 
her  beloved. 

1884. 


101 


anfc 


THE   OAK-TREE   AND   THE   IVY 


IN  the  greenwood  stood  a  mighty  oak. 
So  majestic  was  he  that  all  who  came 
that  way  paused  to  admire  his  strength  and 
beauty,  and  all  the  other  trees  of  the  green 
wood  acknowledged  him  to  be  their  mon 
arch. 

Now  it  came  to  pass  that  the  ivy  loved 
the  oak-tree,  and  inclining  her  graceful  ten 
drils  where  he  stood,  she  crept  about  his 
feet  and  twined  herself  around  his  sturdy 
and  knotted  trunk.  And  the  oak-tree  pitied 
the  ivy. 

"Oho!  "  he  cried,  laughing  boisterously, 
but  good-naturedly, —  "oho!  so  you  love 
me,  do  you,  little  vine  ?  Very  well,  then ; 
play  about  my  feet,  and  I  will  keep  the 
storms  from  you  and  will  tell  you  pretty 
stories  about  the  clouds,  the  birds,  and  the 
stars." 

105 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

The  ivy  marvelled  greatly  at  the  strange 
stories  the  oak-tree  told;  they  were  stories 
the  oak-tree  heard  from  the  wind  that  loi 
tered  about  his  lofty  head  and  whispered  to 
the  leaves  of  his  topmost  branches.  Some 
times  the  story  was  about  the  great  ocean  in 
the  East,  sometimes  of  the  broad  prairies  in 
the  West,  sometimes  of  the  ice-king  who 
lived  in  the  North,  and  sometimes  of  the 
flower-queen  who  dwelt  in  the  South. 
Then,  too,  the  moon  told  a  story  to  the  oak- 
tree  every  night, —  or  at  least  every  night 
that  she  came  to  the  greenwood,  which  was 
very  often,  for  the  greenwood  is  a  very 
charming  spot,  as  we  all  know.  And  the 
oak-tree  repeated  to  the  ivy  every  story 
the  moon  told  and  every  song  the  stars 
sang. 

"  Pray,  what  are  the  winds  saying  now  ?  " 
or  "What  song  is  that  I  hear?"  the  ivy 
would  ask;  and  then  the  oak-tree  would 
repeat  the  story  or  the  song,  and  the  ivy 
would  listen  in  great  wonderment. 

Whenever  the  storms  came,  the  oak-tree 
cried  to  the  little  ivy:  "Cling  close  to  me, 
and  no  harm  shall  befall  you!  See  how 
1 06 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

strong  I  am;  the  tempest  does  not  so  much 
as  stir  me — I  mock  its  fury ! " 

Then,  seeing  how  strong  and  brave  he 
was,  the  ivy  hugged  him  closely ;  his  brown, 
rugged  breast  protected  her  from  every 
harm,  and  she  was  secure. 

The  years  went  by;  how  quickly  they 
flew, —  spring,  summer,  winter,  and  then 
again  spring,  summer,  winter, — ah,  life  is 
short  in  the  greenwood  as  elsewhere!  And 
now  the  ivy  was  no  longer  a  weakly  little 
vine  to  excite  the  pity  of  the  passer-by. 
Her  thousand  beautiful  arms  had  twined 
hither  and  thither  about  the  oak-tree,  cov 
ering  his  brown  and  knotted  trunk,  shooting 
forth  a  bright,  delicious  foliage  and  stretch 
ing  far  up  among  his  lower  branches.  Then 
the  oak-tree's  pity  grew  into  a  love  for  the 
ivy,  and  the  ivy  was  filled  with  a  great  joy. 
And  the  oak-tree  and  the  ivy  were  wed  one 
June  night,  and  there  was  a  wonderful  cele 
bration  in  the  greenwood;  and  there  was 
most  beautiful  music,  in  which  the  pine- 
trees,  the  crickets,  the  katydids,  the  frogs, 
and  the  nightingales  joined  with  pleasing 
harmony. 

107 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

The  oak-tree  was  always  good  and  gentle 
to  the  ivy.  "  There  is  a  storm  coming  over 
the  hills,"  he  would  say.  "The  east  wind 
tells  me  so ;  the  swallows  fly  low  in  the  air, 
and  the  sky  is  dark.  Cling  close  to  me,  my 
beloved,  and  no  harm  shall  befall  you." 

Then,  confidently  and  with  an  always- 
growing  love,  the  ivy  would  cling  more 
closely  to  the  oak-tree,  and  no  harm  came 
to  her. 

"  How  good  the  oak-tree  is  to  the  ivy!  " 
said  the  other  trees  of  the  greenwood.  The 
ivy  heard  them,  and  she  loved  the  oak-tree 
more  and  more.  And,  although  the  ivy 
was  now  the  most  umbrageous  and  luxuri 
ant  vine  in  all  the  greenwood,  the  oak-tree 
regarded  her  still  as  the  tender  little  thing 
he  had  laughingly  called  to  his  feet  that 
spring  day,  many  years  before, —  the  same 
little  ivy  he  had  told  about  the  stars,  the 
clouds,  and  the  birds.  And,  just  as  pa 
tiently  as  in  those  days  he  had  told  her  of 
these  things,  he  now  repeated  other  tales  the 
winds  whispered  to  his  topmost  boughs, — 
tales  of  the  ocean  in  the  East,  the  prairies 
in  the  West,  the  ice-king  in  the  North,  and 
1 08 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

the  flower-queen'  in  the  South.  Nestling 
upon  his  brave  breast  and  in  his  stout  arms, 
the  ivy  heard  him  tell  these  wondrous  things, 
and  she  never  wearied  with  the  listening. 

"  How  the  oak-tree  loves  her!  "  said  the 
ash.  "The  lazy  vine  has  naught  to  do  but 
to  twine  herself  about  the  arrogant  oak-tree 
and  hear  him  tell  his  wondrous  stories! " 

The  ivy  heard  these  envious  words,  and 
they  made  her  very  sad;  but  she  said  no 
thing  of  them  to  the  oak-tree,  and  that  night 
the  oak-tree  rocked  her  to  sleep  as  he  re 
peated  the  lullaby  a  zephyr  was  singing  to 
him. 

"There  is  a  storm  coming  over  the  hills," 
said  the  oak-tree  one  day.  "The  east  wind 
tells  me  so;  the  swallows  fly  low  in  the  air, 
and  the  sky  is  dark.  Clasp  me  round  about 
with  thy  dear  arms,  my  beloved,  and  nestle 
close  unto  my  bosom,  and  no  harm  shall 
befall  thee." 

"  I  have  no  fear,"  murmured  the  ivy;  and 
she  clasped  her  arms  most  closely  about  him 
and  nestled  unto  his  bosom. 

The  storm  came  over  the  hills  and  swept 
down  upon  the  greenwood  with  deafening 
109 


A  LITTLE  BOOK  OF 

thunder  and  vivid  lightning.  The  storm- 
king  himself  rode  upon  the  blast;  his  horses 
breathed  flames,  and  his  chariot  trailed 
through  the  air  like  a  serpent  of  fire.  The 
ash  fell  before  the  violence  of  the  storm- 
king's  fury,  and  the  cedars  groaning  fell,  and 
the  hemlocks  and  the  pines;  but  the  oak- 
tree  alone  quailed  not. 

"Oho!"  cried  the  storm-king,  angrily, 
"the  oak-tree  does  not  bow  to  me,  he  does 
not  tremble  in  my  presence.  Well,  we 
shall  see." 

With  that  the  storm-king  hurled  a  mighty 
thunderbolt  at  the  oak-tree,  and  the  brave, 
strong  monarch  of  the  greenwood  was  riven. 
Then,  with  a  shout  of  triumph,  the  storm- 
king  rode  away. 

"Dear  oak-tree,  you  are  riven  by  the 
storm-king's  thunderbolt!  "  cried  the  ivy,  in 
anguish. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  oak-tree,  feebly,  "  my  end 
has  come;  see,  I  am  shattered  and  help 
less." 

"  But  /am  unhurt,"  remonstrated  the  ivy, 
"and  I  will  bind  up  your  wounds  and  nurse 
you  back  to  health  and  vigor." 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

And  so  it  was  that,  although  the  oak-tree 
was  ever  afterward  a  riven  and  broken  thing, 
the  ivy  concealed  the  scars  upon  his  shat 
tered  form  and  covered  his  wounds  all  over 
with  her  soft  foliage. 

"I  had  hoped,  dear  one,"  she  said,  "to 
grow  up  to  thy  height,  to  live  with  thee 
among  the  clouds,  and  to  hear  the  solemn 
voices  thou  didst  hear.  Thou  wouldst  have 
loved  me  better  then  ?  " 

But  the  old  oak-tree  said :  "Nay,  nay,  my 
beloved;  I  love  thee  better  as  thou  art,  for 
with  thy  beauty  and  thy  love  thou  com- 
fortest  mine  age." 

Then  would  the  ivy  tell  quaint  stories  to 
the  old  and  broken  oak-tree, —  stories  she 
had  learned  from  the  crickets,  the  bees,  the 
butterflies,  and  the  mice  when  she  was  an 
humble  little  vine  and  played  at  the  foot  of 
the  majestic  oak-tree  towering  in  the  green 
wood  with  no  thought  of  the  tiny  shoot 
that  crept  toward  him  with  her  love.  And 
these  simple  tales  pleased  the  old  and  riven 
oak-tree;  they  were  not  as  heroic  as  the 
tales  the  winds,  the  clouds,  and  the  stars 
told,  but  they  were  far  sweeter,  for  they 
in 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

were  tales  of  contentment,  of  humility,  of 
love. 

So  the  old  age  of  the  oak-tree  was  grander 
than  his  youth. 

And  all  who  went  through  the  green 
wood  paused  to  behold  and  admire  the 
beauty  of  the  oak-tree  then ;  for  about  his 
seared  and  broken  trunk  the  gentle  vine  had 
so  entwined  her  graceful  tendrils  and  spread 
her  fair  foliage,  that  one  saw  not  the  havoc 
of  the  years  nor  the  ruin  of  the  tempest,  but 
oflly  the  glory  of  the  oak-tree's  age,  which 
was  the  ivy's  love  and  ministering. 

1886. 


MARGARET:   A  PEARL 


IN  a  certain  part  of  the  sea,  very  many 
leagues  from  here,  there  once  lived  a 
large  family  of  oysters  noted  for  their  beauty 
and  size.  But  among  them  was  one  so 
small,  so  feeble,  and  so  ill-looking  as  to  ex 
cite  the  pity,  if  not  the  contempt,  of  all  the 
others.  The  father,  a  venerable,  bearded 
oyster,  of  august  appearance  and  solemn 
deportment,  was  much  mortified  that  one 
of  his  family  should  happen  to  be  so  sickly; 
and  he  sent  for  all  the  doctors  in  the  sea  to 
come  and  treat  her;  from  which  circum 
stance  you  are  to  note  that  doctors  are  an 
evil  to  be  met  with  not  alone  upon  terra 
firma.  The  first  to  come  was  Dr.  Porpoise, 
a  gentleman  of  the  old  school,  who  floun 
dered  around  in  a  very  important  manner 
and  was  full  of  imposing  ceremonies. 

'"5 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

"Let  me  look  at  your  tongue,"  said  Dr. 
Porpoise,  stroking  his  beard  with  one  fin, 
impressively.  "Ahem!  somewhat  coated, 
I  see.  And  your  pulse  is  far  from  normal; 
no  appetite,  I  presume  ?  Yes,  my  dear, 
your  system  is  sadly  out  of  order.  You 
need  medicine." 

The  little  oyster  hated  medicine;  so  she 
cried, — yes,  she  actually  shed  cold,  briny 
tears  at  the  very  thought  of  taking  old  Dr. 
Porpoise's  prescriptions.  But  the  father- 
oyster  and  the  mother-oyster  chided  her 
sternly;  they  said  that  the  medicine  would 
be  nice  and  sweet,  and  that  the  little  oyster 
would  like  it.  But  the  little  oyster  knew 
better  than  all  that;  yes,  she  knew  a  thing 
or  two,  even  though  she  was  only  a  little 
oyster. 

Now  Dr.  Porpoise  put  a  plaster  on  the 
little  oyster's  chest  and  a  blister  at  her  feet. 
He  bade  her  eat  nothing  but  a  tiny  bit  of 
sea-foam  on  toast  twice  a  day.  Every  two 
hours  she  was  to  take  a  spoonful  of  cod- 
liver  oil,  and  before  each  meal  a  wineglass- 
ful  of  the  essence  of  distilled  cuttlefish.  The 
plaster  she  did  n't  mind,  but  the  blister  and 

110 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

the  cod-liver  oil  were  terrible;  and  when 
it  came  to  the  essence  of  distilled  cuttlefish 
—  well,  she  just  could  n't  stand  it!  In  vain 
her  mother  reasoned  with  her,  and  prom 
ised  her  a  new  doll  and  a  skipping-rope 
and  a  lot  of  other  nice  things:  the  little 
oyster  would  have  none  of  the  horrid  drug; 
until  at  last  her  father,  abandoning  his  dig 
nity  in  order  to  maintain  his  authority,  had 
to  hold  her  down  by  main  strength  and 
pour  the  medicine  into  her  mouth.  This 
was,  as  you  will  allow,  quite  dreadful. 

But  this  treatment  did  the  little  oyster  no 
good;  and  her  parents  made  up  their  minds 
that  they  would  send  for  another  doctor, 
and  one  of  a  different  school.  Fortunately 
they  were  in  a  position  to  indulge  in  almost 
any  expense,  since  the  father-oyster  himself 
was  president  of  one  of  the  largest  banks  of 
Newfoundland.  So  Dr.  Sculpin  came  with 
his  neat  little  medicine-box  under  his  arm. 
And  when  he  had  looked  at  the  sick  little 
oyster's  tongue,  and  had  taken  her  tempera 
ture,  and  had  felt  her  pulse,  he  said  he 
knew  what  ailed  her;  but  he  did  not  tell 
anybody  what  it  was.  He  threw  away  the 
117 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

plasters,  the  blisters,  the  cod-liver  oil,  and 
the  essence  of  distilled  cuttlefish,  and  said  it 
was  a  wonder  that  the  poor  child  had  lived 
through  it  all ! 

"Will  you  please  bring  me  two  tumbler- 
fuls  of  water  ?  "  he  remarked  to  the  mother- 
oyster. 

The  mother-oyster  scuttled  away,  and 
soon  returned  with  two  conch-shells  filled 
to  the  brim  with  pure,  clear  sea-water. 
Dr.  Sculpin  counted  three  grains  of  white 
sand  into  one  shell,  and  three  grains  of 
yellow  sand  into  the  other  shell,  with  great 
care. 

"Now,"  said  he  to  the  mother-oyster, 
"I  have  numbered  these  i  and  2.  First, 
you  are  to  give  the  patient  ten  drops  out 
of  No.  2,  and  in  an  hour  after  that,  eight 
drops  out  of  No.  i ;  the  next  hour,  eight 
drops  out  of  No.  2;  and  the  next,  or  fourth, 
hour,  ten  drops  out  of  No.  i.  And  so  you 
are  to  continue  hour  by  hour,  until  either 
the  medicine  or  the  child  gives  out." 

"Tell  me,  doctor,"  asked  the  mother, 
"shall  she  continue  the  food  suggested  by 
Dr.  Porpoise  ?" 

118 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

"What  food  did  he  recommend?"  in 
quired  Dr.  Sculpin. 

' '  Sea-foam  on  toast,  "answered  the  mother. 

Dr.  Sculpin  smiled  a  smile  which  seemed 
to  suggest  that  Dr.  Porpoise's  ignorance  was 
really  quite  annoying. 

"My  dear  madam,"  said  Dr.  Sculpin,  "the 
diet  suggested  by  that  quack,  Porpoise, 
passed  out  of  the  books  years  ago.  Give 
the  child  toast  on  sea-foam,  if  you  wish  to 
build  up  her  debilitated  forces." 

Now,  the  sick  little  oyster  did  not  object 
to  this  treatment;  on  the  contrary,  she  liked 
it.  But  it  did  her  no  good.  And  one  day, 
when  she  was  feeling  very  dry,  she  drank 
both  tumblerfuls  of  medicine,  and  it  did  not 
do  her  any  harm ;  neither  did  it  cure  her:  she 
remained  the  same  sick  little  oyster, —  oh,  so 
sick!  This  pained  her  parents  very  much. 
They  did  not  know  what  to  do.  They  took 
her  travelling;  they  gave  her  into  the  care 
of  the  eel  for  electric  treatment;  they  sent 
her  to  the  Gulf  Stream  for  warm  baths, — 
they  tried  everything,  but  to  no  avail.  The 
sick  little  oyster  remained  a  sick  little  oyster, 
and  there  was  an  end  of  it. 
119 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

At  last  one  day, —  one  cruel,  fatal  day, —  a 
horrid,  fierce-looking  machine  was  poked 
down  from  the  surface  of  the  water  far  above, 
and  with  slow  but  intrepid  movement  be 
gan  exploring  every  nook  and  crevice  of  the 
oyster  village.  There  was  not  a  family  into 
which  it  did  not  intrude,  nor  a  home  circle 
whose  sanctity  it  did  not  ruthlessly  invade. 
It  scraped  along  the  great  mossy  rock;  and 
lo!  with  a  monstrous  scratchy-te-scratch, 
the  mother-oyster  and  the  father-oyster  and 
hundreds  of  other  oysters  were  torn  from 
their  resting-places  and  borne  aloft  in  a  very 
jumbled  and  very  frightened  condition  by 
the  impertinent  machine.  Then  down  it 
came  again,  and  the  sick  little  oyster  was 
among  the  number  of  those  who  were  seized 
by  the  horrid  monster  this  time.  She  found 
herself  raised  to  the  top  of  the  sea;  and  all 
at  once  she  was  bumped  in  a  boat,  where 
she  lay,  puny  and  helpless,  on  a  huge  pile 
of  other  oysters.  Two  men  were  handling 
the  fierce-looking  machine.  A  little  boy  sat 
in  the  stern  of  the  boat  watching  the  huge 
pile  of  oysters.  He  was  a  pretty  little  boy, 
with  bright  eyes  and  long  tangled  hair.  He 

120 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

wore  no  hat,  and  his  feet  were  bare  and 
brown. 

"What  a  funny  little  oyster!"  said  the 
boy,  picking  up  the  sick  little  oyster;  "it is 
no  bigger  than  my  thumb,  and  it  is  very 
pale." 

"Throw  it  away,"  said  one  of  the  men. 
"  Like  as  not  it  is  bad  and  not  fit  to  eat." 

"No,  keep  it  and  send  it  out  West  for 
a  Blue  Point,"  said  the  other  man, —  what  a 
heartless  wretch  he  was! 

But  the  little  boy  had  already  thrown  the 
sick  little  oyster  overboard.  She  fell  in  shal 
low  water,  and  the  rising  tide  carried  her 
still  farther  toward  shore,  until  she  lodged 
against  an  old  gum  boot  that  lay  half  buried 
in  the  sand.  There  were  no  other  oysters 
in  sight;  her  head  ached  and  she  was  very 
weak;  how  lonesome,  too,  she  was!  —  yet 
anything  was  better  than  being  eaten, —  at 
least  so  thought  the  little  oyster,  and  so,  I 
presume,  think  you. 

For  many  weeks  and  many  months  the 
sick  little  oyster  lay  hard  by  the  old  gum 
boot;  and  in  that  time  she  made  many  ac 
quaintances  and  friends  among  the  crabs, 


A    LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

the  lobsters,  the  fiddlers,  the  star-fish,  the 
waves,  the  shells,  and  the  gay  little  fishes 
of  the  ocean.  They  did  not  harm  her,  for 
they  saw  that  she  was  sick;  they  pitied  her 
—  some  loved  her.  The  one  that  loved  her 
most  was  the  perch  with  green  fins  that  at 
tended  school  every  day  in  the  academic 
shade  of  the  big  rocks  in  the  quiet  cove 
about  a  mile  away.  He  was  very  gentle  and 
attentive,  and  every  afternoon  he  brought 
fresh,  cool  sea-foam  for  the  sick  oyster  to 
eat;  he  told  her  pretty  stories,  too, —  stories 
which  his  grandmother,  the  venerable  cod 
fish,  had  told  him  of  the  sea-king,  the  mer 
maids,  the  pixies,  the  water-sprites,  and  the 
other  fantastically  beautiful  dwellers  in  ocean 
depths.  Now  while  all  this  was  very  pleas 
ant,  the  sick  little  oyster  knew  that  the  perch's 
wooing  was  hopeless,  for  she  was  very  ill  and 
helpless,  and  could  never  think  of  becoming 
a  burden  upon  one  so  young  and  so  promis 
ing  as  the  gallant  perch  with  green  fins.  But 
when  she  spoke  to  him  in  this  strain,  he 
would  not  listen;  he  kept  right  on  bringing 
her  more  and  more  cool  sea-foam  every  day. 
The  old  gum  boot  was  quite  a  motherly 

J32 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

creature,  and  anon  the  sick  little  oyster  be 
came  very  much  attached  to  her.  Many 
times  as  the  little  invalid  rested  her  aching 
head  affectionately  on  the  instep  of  the  old 
gum  boot,  the  old  gum  boot  told  her  stories 
of  the  world  beyond  the  sea:  how  she  had 
been  born  in  a  mighty  forest,  and  how  proud 
her  folks  were  of  their  family  tree;  how  she 
had  been  taken  from  that  forest  and  moulded 
into  the  shape  she  now  bore;  how  she  had 
graced  and  served  a  foot  in  amphibious  ca 
pacities,  until,  at  last,  having  seen  many 
things  and  having  travelled  much,  she  had 
been  cast  off  and  hurled  into  the  sea  to  be 
the  scorn  of  every  crab  and  the  derision  of 
every  fish.  These  stories  were  all  new  to 
the  little  oyster,  and  amazing,  too;  she  knew 
only  of  the  sea,  having  lived  therein  all  her 
life.  She  in  turn  told  the  old  gum  boot 
quaint  legends  of  the  ocean, —  the  simple 
tales  she  had  heard  in  her  early  home;  and 
there  was  a  sweetness  and  a  simplicity  in 
these  stories  of  the  deep  that  charmed  the 
old  gum  boot,  shrivelled  and  hardened  and 
pessimistic  though  she  was. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  it  all, —  the  kindness,  the 
123 


A    LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

care,  the  amusements,  and  the  devotion  of 
her  friends, —  the  little  oyster  remained  al 
ways  a  sick  and  fragile  thing.  But  no  one 
heard  her  complain,  for  she  bore  her  suffer 
ing  patiently. 

Not  far  from  this  beach  where  the  ocean 
ended  its  long  travels  there  was  a  city,  and 
in  this  city  there  dwelt  with  her  parents  a 
maiden  of  the  name  of  Margaret.  From  in 
fancy  she  had  been  sickly,  and  although  she 
had  now  reached  the  years  of  early  woman 
hood,  she  could  not  run  or  walk  about  as 
others  did,  but  she  had  to  be  wheeled  hither 
and  thither  in  a  chair.  This  was  very  sad; 
yet  Margaret  was  so  gentle  and  uncomplain 
ing  that  from  aught  she  said  you  never  would 
have  thought  her  life  was  full  of  suffering. 
Seeing  her  helplessness,  the  sympathetic 
things  of  Nature  had  compassion  and  were 
very  good  to  Margaret.  The  sunbeams  stole 
across  her  pathway  everywhere,  the  grass 
clustered  thickest  and  greenest  where  she 
went,  the  winds  caressed  her  gently  as  they 
passed,  and  the  birds  loved  to  perch  near 
her  window  and  sing  their  prettiest  songs. 
Margaret  loved  them  all,  —  the  sunlight,  the 
124 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

singing  winds,  the  grass,  the  carolling  birds. 
She  communed  with  them;  their  wisdom 
inspired  her  life,  and  this  wisdom  gave  her 
nature  a  rare  beauty. 

Every  pleasant  day  Margaret  was  wheeled 
from  her  home  in  the  city  down  to  the  beach, 
and  there  for  hours  she  would  sit,  looking 
out,  far  out  upon  the  ocean,  as  if  she  were 
communing  with  the  ocean  spirits  that  lifted 
up  their  white  arms  from  the  restless  waters 
and  beckoned  her  to  come.  Oftentimes  the 
children  playing  on  the  beach  came  where 
Margaret  sat,  and  heard  her  tell  little  stories 
of  the  pebbles  and  the  shells,  of  the  ships 
away  out  at  sea,  of  the  ever-speeding  gulls, 
of  the  grass,  of  the  flowers,  and  of  the  other 
beautiful  things  of  life;  and  so  in  time  the 
children  came  to  love  Margaret.  Among 
those  who  so  often  gathered  to  hear  the 
gentle  sick  girl  tell  her  pretty  stories  was  a 
youth  of  Margaret's  age, —  older  than  the 
others,  a  youth  with  sturdy  frame  and  a  face 
full  of  candor  and  earnestness.  His  name 
was  Edward,  and  he  was  a  student  in  the 
city;  he  hoped  to  become  a  great  scholar 
sometime,  and  he  toiled  very  zealously  to 
125 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

that  end.  The  patience,  the  gentleness,  the 
sweet  simplicity,  the  fortitude  of  the  sick 
girl  charmed  him.  He  found  in  her  little 
stories  a  quaint  and  beautiful  philosophy  he 
never  yet  had  found  in  books;  there  was  a 
valor  in  her  life  he  never  yet  had  read  of  in 
the  histories.  So,  every  day  she  came  and 
sat  upon  the  beach,  Edward  came  too;  and 
with  the  children  he  heard  Margaret's  stories 
of  the  sea,  the  air,  the  grass,  the  birds,  and 
the  flowers. 

From  her  moist  eyry  in  the  surf  the  old 
gum  boot  descried  the  group  upon  the  beach 
each  pleasant  day.  Now  the  old  gum  boot 
had  seen  enough  of  the  world  to  know  a 
thing  or  two,  as  we  presently  shall  see. 

"That  tall  young  man  is  not  a  child," 
quoth  the  old  gum  boot,  "yet  he  comes 
every  day  with  the  children  to  hear  the  sick 
girl  tell  her  stories!  Ah,  ha!  " 

"Perhaps  he  is  the  doctor,"  suggested  the 
little  oyster;  and  then  she  added  with  a  sigh, 
"but,  oh!  I  hope  not." 

This  suggestion  seemed  to  amuse  the  old 
gum  boot  highly;  at  least  she  fell  into  such 
hysterical  laughter  that  she  sprung  a  leak 
126 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

near  her  little  toe,  which,  considering  her 
environments,  was  a  serious  mishap. 

"  Unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken,  my  child," 
said  the  old  gum  boot  to  the  little  oyster, 
"that  young  man  is  in  love  with  the  sick 
girl!" 

' '  Oh,  how  terrible !  "  said  the  little  oyster ; 
and  she  meant  it  too,  for  she  was  thinking 
of  the  gallant  young  perch  with  green  fins. 

"  Well,  I  've  said  it,  and  I  mean  it! "  con 
tinued  the  old  gum  boot;  "now  just  wait 
and  see." 

The  old  gum  boot  had  guessed  aright  — 
so  much  for  the  value  of  worldly  experience ! 
Edward  loved  Margaret;  to  him  she  was  the 
most  beautiful,  the  most  perfect  being  in  the 
world;  her  very  words  seemed  to  exalt  his 
nature.  Yet  he  never  spoke  to  her  of  love. 
He  was  content  to  come  with  the  children 
to  hear  her  stones,  to  look  upon  her  sweet 
face,  and  to  worship  her  in  silence.  Was 
not  that  a  very  wondrous  love  ? 

In  course  of  time  the  sick  girl  Margaret 
became  more  interested  in  the  little  ones 
that  thronged  daily  to  hear  her  pretty  sto 
ries,  and  she  put  her  beautiful  fancies  into 
127 


A   LITTLE  BOOK  OF 

the  little  songs  and  quaint  poems  and  ten 
der  legends, — songs  and  poems  and  legends 
about  the  sea,  the  flowers,  the  birds,  and 
the  other  beautiful  creations  of  Nature;  and 
in  all  there  was  a  sweet  simplicity,  a  deli 
cacy,  a  reverence,  that  bespoke  Margaret's 
spiritual  purity  and  wisdom.  In  this  teach 
ing,  and  marvelling  ever  at  its  beauty, 
Edward  grew  to  manhood.  She  was  his 
inspiration,  yet  he  never  spoke  of  love  to 
Margaret.  And  so  the  years  went  by. 

Beginning  with  the  children,  the  world 
came  to  know  the  sick  girl's  power.  Her 
songs  were  sung  in  every  home,  and  in 
every  home  her  verses  and  her  little  stories 
were  repeated.  And  so  it  was  that  Marga 
ret  came  to  be  beloved  of  all,  but  he  who 
loved  her  best  spoke  never  of  his  love  to 
her. 

And  as  these  years  went  by,  the  sick  little 
oyster  lay  in  the  sea  cuddled  close  to  the 
old  gum  boot.  She  was  wearier  now  than 
ever  before,  for  there  was  no  cure  for  her 
malady.  The  gallant  perch  with  green  fins 
was  very  sad,  for  his  wooing  had  been 
hopeless.  Still  he  was  devoted,  and  still 
128 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

he  came  each  day  to  the  little  oyster,  bring 
ing  her  cool  sea-foam  and  other  delicacies 
of  the  ocean.  Oh,  how  sick  the  little  oyster 
was!  But  the  end  came  at  last. 

The  children  were  on  the  beach  one  day, 
waiting  for  Margaret,  and  they  wondered 
that  she  did  not  come.  Presently,  grown 
restless,  many  of  the  boys  scampered  into 
the  water  and  stood  there,  with  their  trou 
sers  rolled  up,  boldly  daring  the  little 
waves  that  rippled  up  from  the  overflow 
of  the  surf.  And  one  little  boy  happened 
upon  the  old  gum  boot.  It  was  a  great 
discovery. 

"See  the  old  gum  boot,"  cried  the  boy, 
fishing  it  out  of  the  water  and  holding  it  on 
high.  "And  here  is  a  little  oyster  fastened 
to  it!  How  funny!  " 

The  children  gathered  round  the  curious 
object  on  the  beach.  None  of  them  had 
ever  seen  such  a  funny  old  gum  boot,  and 
surely  none  of  them  had  ever  seen  such 
a  funny  little  oyster.  They  tore  the  pale, 
knotted  little  thing  from  her  foster-mother, 
and  handled  her  with  such  rough  curiosity 
that  even  had  she  been  a  robust  oyster  she 
129 


A   LITTLE    BOOK  OF 

must  certainly  have  died.  At  any  rate,  the 
little  oyster  was  dead  now;  and  the  be 
reaved  perch  with  green  fins  must  have 
known  it,  for  he  swam  up  and  down  his 
native  cove  disconsolately. 

It  befell  in  that  same  hour  that  Margaret 
lay  upon  her  death-bed,  and  knowing  that 
she  had  not  long  to  live,  she  sent  for  Ed 
ward.  And  Edward,  when  he  came  to  her, 
was  filled  with  anguish,  and  clasping  her 
hands  in  his,  he  told  her  of  his  love. 

Then  Margaret  answered  him:  "I  knew 
it,  dear  one;  and  all  the  songs  I  have  sung 
and  all  the  words  I  have  spoken  and  all  the 
prayers  I  have  made  have  been  with  you, 
dear  one, — all  with  you,  in  my  heart  of 
hearts." 

"You  have  purified  and  exalted  my  life," 
cried  Edward;  "you  have  been  my  best 
and  sweetest  inspiration;  you  have  taught 
me  the  eternal  truth, —  you  are  my  be 
loved!" 

And  Margaret  said:  "Then  in  my  weak 
ness  hath  there  been  a  wondrous  strength, 
and  from  my  sufferings  cometh  the  glory  I 
have  sought! " 

130 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

So  Margaret  died,  and  like  a  broken  lily 
she  lay  upon  her  couch ;  and  all  the  sweet 
ness  of  her  pure  and  gentle  life  seemed  to 
come  back  and  rest  upon  her  face;  and  the 
songs  she  had  sung  and  the  beautiful  stories 
she  had  told  came  back,  too,  on  angel  wings, 
and  made  sweet  music  in  that  chamber. 

The  children  were  lingering  on  the  beach 
when  Edward  came  that  day.  He  could 
hear  them  singing  the  songs  Margaret  had 
taught  them.  They  wondered  that  he  came 
alone. 

"See,"  cried  one  of  the  boys,  running  to 
meet  him  and  holding  a  tiny  shell  in  his 
hand, —  "see  what  we  have  found  in  this 
strange  little  shell.  Is  it  not  beautiful!" 

Edward  took  the  dwarfed,  misshapen 
thing,  and  lo!  it  held  a  beauteous  pearl. 

O  little  sister  mine,  let  me  look  into  your 
eyes  and  read  an  inspiration  there;  let  me 
hold  your  thin  -white  hand  and  know  the 
strength  of  a  philosophy  more  beautiful  than 
human  knowledge  teaches;  let  me  see  in  your 
dear,  patient  little  face  and  hear  in  your 
gentle  voice  the  untold  -valor  of  your  suffer- 
•  31 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

ing  life.  Come,  little  shier,  let  me  fold  you 
in  my  arms  and  have  you  ever  with  me,  that 
in  the  glory  of  your  faith  and  lone  I  may 
walk  the  paths  of  wisdom  and  of  peace. 

1887. 


THE  SPRINGTIME 


A  CHILD  once  said  to  his  grandsire: 
"  Gran'pa,  what  do  the  flowers  mean 
when  they  talk  to  the  old  oak-tree  about 
death  ?  I  hear  them  talking  every  day,  but 
I  cannot  understand;  it  is  all  very  strange." 

The  grandsire  bade  the  child  think  no 
more  of  these  things;  the  flowers  were  fool 
ish  prattlers, —  what  right  had  they  to  put 
such  notions  into  a  child's  head  ?  But  the 
child  did  not  do  his  grandsire's  bidding;  he 
loved  the  flowers  and  the  trees,  and  he  went 
each  day  to  hear  them  talk. 

It  seems  that  the  little  vine  down  by  the 
stone  wall  had  overheard  the  south  wind 
say  to  the  rose-bush :  "You  are  a  proud,  im 
perious  beauty  now,  and  will  not  listen  to 
my  suit;  but  wait  till  my  boisterous  brother 
comes  from  the  North, — then  you  will  droop 

'35 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

and  wither  and  die,  all  because  you  would 
not  listen  to  me  and  fly  with  me  to  my  home 
by  the  Southern  sea." 

These  words  set  the  little  vine  to  thinking ; 
and  when  she  had  thought  for  a  long  time 
she  spoke  to  the  daisy  about  it,  and  the 
daisy  called  in  the  violet,  and  the  three  little 
ones  had  a  very  serious  conference;  but, 
having  talked  it  all  over,  they  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  was  as  much  of  a  mystery 
as  ever.  The  old  oak-tree  saw  them. 

"  You  little  folks  seem  very  much  puzzled 
about  something,"  said  the  old  oak-tree. 

"I  heard  the  south  wind  tell  the  rose-bush 
that  she  would  die,"  exclaimed  the  vine, 
"and  we  do  not  understand  what  it  is. 
Can  you  tell  us  what  it  is  to  die?" 

The  old  oak-tree  smiled  sadly. 

"  I  do  not  call  it  death,"  said  the  old  oak- 
tree;  "I  call  it  sleep, —  a  long,  restful,  re 
freshing  sleep." 

"How  does  it  feel?"  inquired  the  daisy, 
looking  very  full  of  astonishment  and  anxiety. 

"  You  must  know,"  said  the  old  oak-tree, 
"that  after  many,  many  days  we  all  have 
had  such  merry  times  and  have  bloomed  so 
.36 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

long  and  drunk  so  heartily  of  the  dew  and 
sunshine  and  eaten  so  much  of  the  goodness 
of  the  earth  that  we  feel  very  weary  and  we 
long  for  repose.  Then  a  great  wind  comes 
out  of  the  north,  and  we  shiver  in  its  icy 
blast.  The  sunshine  goes  away,  and  there  is 
no  dew  for  us  nor  any  nourishment  in  the 
earth,  and  we  are  glad  to  go  to  sleep." 

"  Mercy  on  me !  "  cried  the  vine,  "  I  shall 
not  like  that  at  all!  What,  leave  this  smil 
ing  meadow  and  all  the  pleasant  grass  and 
singing  bees  and  frolicsome  butterflies  ? 
No,  old  oak-tree,  I  would  never  go  to  sleep; 
I  much  prefer  sporting  with  the  winds  and 
playing  with  my  little  friends,  the  daisy  and 
the  violet." 

"And  I,"  said  the  violet,  "I  think  it 
would  be  dreadful  to  go  to  sleep.  What 
if  we  never  should  wake  up  again!  " 

The  suggestion  struck  the  others  dumb 
with  terror, —  all  but  the  old  oak-tree. 

"  Have  no  fear  of  that,"  said  the  old  oak- 
tree,  "for  you  are  sure  to  awaken  again, 
and  when  you  have  awakened  the  new  life 
will  be  sweeter  and  happier  than  the  old." 

"What    nonsense!"     cried   the    thistle. 

'37 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

"You  children  should  n't  believe  a  word 
of  it.  When  you  go  to  sleep  you  die,  and 
when  you  die  there  's  the  last  of  you! " 

The  old  oak-tree  reproved  the  thistle;  but 
the  thistle  maintained  his  abominable  heresy 
so  stoutly  that  the  little  vine  and  the  daisy 
and  the  violet  were  quite  at  a  loss  to  know 
which  of  the  two  to  believe, —  the  old  oak- 
tree  or  the  thistle. 

The  child  heard  it  all  and  was  sorely  puz 
zled.  What  was  this  death,  this  mysteri 
ous  sleep  ?  Would  it  come  upon  him,  the 
child  ?  And  after  he  had  slept  awhile  would 
he  awaken  ?  His  grandsire  would  not  tell 
him  of  these  things ;  perhaps  his  grandsire 
did  not  know. 

It  was  a  long,  long  summer,  full  of  sun 
shine  and  bird-music,  and  the  meadow  was 
like  a  garden,  and  the  old  oak-tree  looked 
down  upon  the  grass  and  flowers  and  saw 
that  no  evil  befell  them.  A  long,  long  play- 
day  it  was  to  the  little  vine,  the  daisy,  and 
the  violet.  The  crickets  and  the  grasshop 
pers  and  the  bumblebees  joined  in  the  sport, 
and  romped  and  made  music  till  it  seemed 
like  an  endless  carnival.  Only  every  now 
138 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

and  then  the  vine  and  her  little  flower 
friends  talked  with  the  old  oak-tree  about 
that  strange  sleep  and  the  promised  awak 
ening,  and  the  thistle  scoffed  at  the  old  oak- 
tree's  cheering  words.  The  child  was  there 
and  heard  it  all. 

One  day  the  great  wind  came  out  of  the 
north.  Hurry-scurry!  back  to  their  warm 
homes  in  the  earth  and  under  the  old  stone 
wall  scampered  the  crickets  and  bumble 
bees  to  go  to  sleep.  Whirr,  whirr!  Oh, 
but  how  piercing  the  great  wind  was;  how 
different  from  his  amiable  brother  who  had 
travelled  all  the  way  from  the  Southern  sea 
to  kiss  the  flowers  and  woo  the  rose! 

"Well,  this  is  the  last  of  us!"  exclaimed 
the  thistle ;  "we  're  going  to  die,  and  that 's 
the  end  of  it  all!" 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  old  oak-tree;  "we 
shall  not  die;  we  are  going  to  sleep.  Here, 
take  my  leaves,  little  flowers,  and  you  shall 
sleep  warm  under  them.  Then,  when  you 
awaken,  you  shall  see  how  much  sweeter 
and  happier  the  new  life  is." 

The  little  ones  were  very  weary  indeed. 
The  promised  sleep  came  very  gratefully. 

'39 


A    LITTLE    BOOK   OF 

"We  would  not  be  so  willing  to  go  to 
sleep  if  we  thought  we  should  not  awaken," 
said  the  violet. 

So  the  little  ones  went  to  sleep.  The 
little  vine  was  the  last  of  all  to  sink  to  her 
slumbers;  she  nodded  in  the  wind  and  tried 
to  keep  awake  till  she  saw  the  old  oak-tree 
close  his  eyes,  but  her  efforts  were  vain; 
she  nodded  and  nodded,  and  bowed  her 
slender  form  against  the  old  stone  wall,  till 
finally  she,  too,  had  sunk  into  repose.  And 
then  the  old  oak-tree  stretched  his  weary 
limbs  and  gave  a  last  look  at  the  sullen  sky 
and  at  the  slumbering  little  ones  at  his  feet; 
and  with  that,  the  old  oak-tree  fell  asleep 
too. 

The  child  saw  all  these  things,  and  he 
wanted  to  ask  his  grandsire  about  them, 
but  his  grandsire  would  not  tell  him  of 
them;  perhaps  his  grandsire  did  not  know. 

The  child  saw  the  storm-king  come  down 
from  the  hills  and  ride  furiously  over  the 
meadows  and  over  the  forest  and  over 
the  town.  The  snow  fell  everywhere,  and 
the  north  wind  played  solemn  music  in  the 
chimneys.  The  storm-king  put  the  brook 
140 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

to  bed,  and  threw  a  great  mantle  of  snow 
over  him;  and  the  brook  that  had  romped 
and  prattled  all  the  summer  and  told  pretty 
tales  to  the  grass  and  flowers, — the  brook 
went  to  sleep  too.  With  all  his  fierceness 
and  bluster,  the  storm-king  was  very  kind; 
he  did  not  awaken  the  old  oak-tree  and  the 
slumbering  flowers.  The  little  vine  lay  un 
der  the  fleecy  snow  against  the  old  stone 
wall  and  slept  peacefully,  and  so  did  the 
violet  and  the  daisy.  Only  the  wicked  old 
thistle  thrashed  about  in  his  sleep  as  if  he 
dreamed  bad  dreams,  which,  all  will  allow, 
was  no  more  than  he  deserved. 

All  through  that  winter — and  it  seemed 
very  long — the  child  thought  of  the  flow 
ers  and  the  vine  and  the  old  oak-tree,  and 
wondered  whether  in  the  springtime  they 
would  awaken  from  their  sleep;  and  he 
wished  for  the  springtime  to  come.  And 
at  last  the  springtime  came.  One  day  the 
sunbeams  fluttered  down  from  the  sky  and 
danced  all  over  the  meadow. 

"  Wake  up,  little  friends!  "  cried  the  sun 
beams, — "wake  up,  for  it  is  the  spring 
time!  " 

141 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

The  brook  was  the  first  to  respond.  So 
eager,  so  fresh,  so  exuberant  was  he  after 
his  long  winter  sleep,  that  he  leaped  from 
his  bed  and  frolicked  all  over  the  meadow 
and  played  all  sorts  of  curious  antics.  Then 
a  little  bluebird  was  seen  in  the  hedge  one 
morning.  He  was  calling  to  the  violet. 

"Wake  up,  little  violet,"  called  the  blue 
bird.  "Have  I  come  all  this  distance  to 
find  you  sleeping?  Wake  up;  it  is  the 
springtime! " 

That  pretty  little  voice  awakened  the  vio 
let,  of  course. 

"Oh,  how  sweetly  I  have  slept!"  cried 
the  violet;  "how  happy  this  new  life  is! 
Welcome,  dear  friends! " 

And  presently  the  daisy  awakened,  fresh 
and  beautiful,  and  then  the  little  vine,  and, 
last  of  all,  the  old  oak-tree.  The  meadow 
was  green,  and  all  around  there  were  the 
music,  the  fragrance,  the  new,  sweet  life 
of  the  springtime. 

"I  slept  horribly,"  growled  the  thistle. 
"I  had  bad  dreams.  It  was  sleep,  after  all, 
but  it  ought  to  have  been  death." 

The  thistle  never  complained  again;  for 
142 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

Just  then  a  four-footed  monster  stalked 
through  the  meadow  and  plucked  and  ate 
the  thistle  and  then  stalked  gloomily  away; 
which  was  the  last  of  the  sceptical  thistle, — 
truly  a  most  miserable  end ! 

"You  said  the  truth,  dear  old  oak-tree!" 
cried  the  little  vine.  "  It  was  not  death,— 
it  was  only  a  sleep,  a  sweet,  refreshing 
sleep,  and  this  awakening  is  very  beautiful." 

They  all  said  so, — the  daisy,  the  violet, 
the  oak-tree,  the  crickets,  the  bees,  and  all 
the  things  and  creatures  of  the  field  and 
forest  that  had  awakened  from  their  long 
sleep  to  swell  the  beauty  and  the  glory  of 
the  springtime.  And  they  talked  with  the 
child,  and  the  child  heard  them.  And  al 
though  the  grandsire  never  spoke  to  the 
child  about  these  things,  the  child  learned 
from  the  flowers  and  trees  a  lesson  of  the 
springtime  which  perhaps  the  grandsire 
never  knew- 

1885. 


V 

anfc  f)is  King 


RODOLPH   AND   HIS   KING 


"HpELL  me,  Father,"  said  the  child  at 
1  Rodolph's  knee, —  "tell  me  of  the 
king." 

"There  is  no  king,  my  child,"  said  Ro- 
dolph.  "What  you  have  heard  are  old 
women's  tales.  Do  not  believe  them,  for 
there  is  no  king." 

"  But  why,  then,"  queried  the  child,  "  do 
all  the  people  praise  and  call  on  him;  why 
do  the  birds  sing  of  the  king;  and  why  do 
the  brooks  always  prattle  his  name,  as  they 
dance  from  the  hills  to  the  sea  ?  " 

"Nay,"  answered  Rodolph,  "you  im 
agine  these  things;  there  is  no  king.  Be 
lieve  me,  child,  there  is  no  king." 

So  spake  Rodolph;  but  scarcely  had  he 
uttered  the  words  when  the  cricket  in  the 
chimney  corner  chirped  loudly,  and  his 

'47 


A    LITTLE    BOOK   OF 

shrill  notes  seemed  to  say:  "The  king  — 
the  king."  Rodolph  could  hardly  believe 
his  ears.  How  had  the  cricket  learned  to 
chirp  these  words  ?  It  was  beyond  all  un 
derstanding.  But  still  the  cricket  chirped, 
and  still  his  musical  monotone  seemed  to 
say,  "The  king  —  the  king,"  until,  with  an 
angry  frown,  Rodolph  strode  from  his  house, 
leaving  the  child  to  hear  the  cricket's  song 
alone. 

But  there  were  other  voices  to  remind 
Rodolph  of  the  king.  The  sparrows  were 
fluttering  under  the  eaves,  and  they  twit 
tered  noisily  as  Rodolph  strode  along,  "The 
king,  king,  king!  "  "The  king,  king,  king," 
twittered  the  sparrows,  and  their  little  tones 
were  full  of  gladness  and  praise. 

A  thrush  sat  in  the  hedge,  and  she  was 
singing  her  morning  song.  It  was  a  hymn 
of  praise, —  how  beautiful  it  was!  "The 
king  —  the  king  —  the  king,"  sang  the 
thrush,  and  she  sang,  too,  of  his  good 
ness, —  it  was  a  wondrous  song,  and  it  was 
all  about  the  king. 

The  doves  cooed  in  the  elm-trees.  "Sing 
to  us!  "  cried  their  little  ones,  stretching  out 
148 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

their  pretty  heads  from  the  nests.  Then  the 
doves  nestled  hard  by  and  murmured  lul 
labies,  and  the  lullabies  were  of  the  king 
who  watched  over  and  protected  even  the 
little  birds  in  their  nests. 

Rodolph  heard  these  things,  and  they 
filled  him  with  anger. 

"It  is  a  lie!"  muttered  Rodolph;  and  in 
great  petulance  he  came  to  the  brook. 

How  noisy  and  romping  the  brook  was; 
how  capricious,  how  playful,  how  furtive! 
And  how  he  called  to  the  willows  and 
prattled  to  the  listening  grass  as  he  scam 
pered  on  his  way.  But  Rodolph  turned 
aside  and  his  face  grew  darker.  He  did  not 
like  the  voice  of  the  brook ;  for,  lo !  just  as 
the  cricket  had  chirped  and  the  birds  had 
sung,  so  did  this  brook  murmur  and  prattle 
and  sing  ever  of  the  king,  the  king,  the  king. 

So,  always  after  that,  wherever  Rodolph 
went,  he  heard  voices  that  told  him  of  the 
king;  yes,  even  in  their  quiet,  humble  way, 
the  flowers  seemed  to  whisper  the  king's 
name,  and  every  breeze  that  fanned  his  brow 
had  a  tale  to  tell  of  the  king  and  his  good 
ness. 

149 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

"But  there  is  no  king!"  cried  Rodolph. 
"They  all  conspire  to  plague  me!  There  is 
no  king  —  there  is  no  king!  " 

Once  he  stood  by  the  sea  and  saw  a  mighty 
ship  go  sailing  by.  The  waves  plashed  on 
the  shore  and  told  stories  to  the  pebbles  and 
the  sands.  Rodolph  heard  their  thousand 
voices,  and  he  heard  them  telling  of  the  king. 

Then  a  great  storm  came  upon  the  sea,  a 
tempest  such  as  never  before  had  been  seen. 
The  waves  dashed  mountain-high  and  over 
whelmed  the  ship,  and  the  giant  voices  of 
the  winds  and  waves  cried  of  the  king,  the 
king!  The  sailors  strove  in  agony  till  all 
seemed  lost.  Then,  when  they  could  do  no 
more,  they  stretched  out  their  hands  and 
called  upon  the  king  to  save  them, — the 
king,  the  king,  the  king ! 

Rodolph  saw  the  tempest  subside.  The 
angry  winds  were  lulled,  and  the  mountain 
waves  sank  into  sleep,  and  the  ship  came 
safely  into  port.  Then  the  sailors  'sang  a 
hymn  of  praise,  and  the  hymn  was  of  the 
king  and  to  the  king. 

"But  there  is  no  king!"  cried  Rodolph. 
"It  is  a  lie;  there  is  no  king!" 
150 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

Yet  everywhere  he  went  he  heard  always 
of  the  king;  the  king's  name  and  the  king's 
praises  were  on  every  tongue;  ay,  and  the 
things  that  had  no  voices  seemed  to  wear 
the  king's  name  written  upon  them,  until 
Rodolph  neither  saw  nor  heard  anything 
that  did  not  mind  him  of  the  king. 

Then,  in  great  anger,  Rodolph  said:  "I 
will  go  to  the  mountain-tops;  there  I  shall 
find  no  birds,  nor  trees,  nor  brooks,  nor 
flowers  to  prate  of  a  monarch  no  one  has 
ever  seen.  There  shall  there  be  no  sea  to 
vex  me  with  its  murmurings,  nor  any  hu 
man  voice  to  displease  me  with  its  super 
stitions." 

So  Rodolph  went  to  the  mountains,  and 
he  scaled  the  loftiest  pinnacle,  hoping  that 
there  at  last  he  might  hear  no  more  of  that 
king  whom  none  had  ever  seen.  And  as 
he  stood  upon  the  pinnacle,  what  a  mighty 
panorama  was  spread  before  him,  and  what 
a  mighty  anthem  swelled  upon  his  ears! 
The  peopled  plains,  with  their  songs  and 
murmurings,  lay  far  below;  on  every  side 
the  mountain  peaks  loomed  up  in  snowy 
grandeur;  and  overhead  he  saw  the  sky, 

'5' 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

blue,  cold,  and  cloudless,  from  horizon  to 
horizon. 

What  voice  was  that  which  spoke  in 
Rodolph's  bosom  then  as  Rodolph's  eyes 
beheld  this  revelation  ? 

"There  is  a  king!  "  said  the  voice.  "The 
king  lives,  and  this  is  his  abiding-place!  " 

And  how  did  Rodolph's  heart  stand  still 
when  he  felt  Silence  proclaim  the  king,— 
not  in  tones  of  thunder,  as  the  tempest  had 
proclaimed  him,  nor  in  the  singing  voices 
of  the  birds  and  brooks,  but  so  swiftly,  so 
surely,  so  grandly,  that  Rodolph's  soul  was 
filled  with  awe  ineffable. 

Then  Rodolph  cried:  "There  is  a  king, 
and  I  acknowledge  him!  Henceforth  my 
voice  shall  swell  the  songs  of  all  in  earth 
and  air  and  sea  that  know  and  praise  his 
name! " 

So  Rodolph  went  to  his  home.  He  heard 
the  cricket  singing  of  the  king;  yes,  and  the 
sparrows  under  the  eaves,  the  thrush  in  the 
hedge,  the  doves  in  the  elms,  and  the  brook, 
too,  all  singing  of  the  king;  and  Rodolph's 
heart  was  gladdened  by  their  music.  And 
all  the  earth  and  the  things  of  the  earth 
152 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

seemed  more  beautiful  to  Rodolph  now  that 
he  believed  in  the  king;  and  to  the  song  all 
Nature  sang  Rodolph's  voice  and  Rodolph's 
heart  made  harmonious  response. 

"  There  is  a  king,  my  child,"  said  Rodolph 
to  his  little  one.  "Together  let  us  sing  to 
him,  for  he  is  our  king,  and  his  goodness 
abideth  forever  and  forever." 

1885. 


'53 


THE   HAMPSHIRE   HILLS 


ONE  afternoon  many  years  ago  two  little 
brothers  named  Seth  and  Abner  were 
playing  in  the  orchard.  They  were  not 
troubled  with  the  heat  of  the  August  day, 
for  a  soft,  cool  wind  came  up  from  the  river 
in  the  valley  over  yonder  and  fanned  their  red 
cheeks  and  played  all  kinds  of  pranks  with 
their  tangled  curls.  All  about  them  was 
the  hum  of  bees,  the  song  of  birds,  the 
smell  of  clover,  and  the  merry  music  of  the 
crickets.  Their  little  dog  Fido  chased  them 
through  the  high,  waving  grass,  and  rolled 
with  them  under  the  trees,  and  barked  him 
self  hoarse  in  his  attempt  to  keep  pace  with 
their  laughter.  Wearied  at  length,  they  lay 
beneath  the  bellflower-tree  and  looked  off 
at  the  Hampshire  hills,  and  wondered  if  the 
time  ever  would  come  when  they  should 

•57 


A    LITTLE    BOOK   OF 

go  out.  into  the  world  beyond  those  hills 
and  be  great,  noisy  men.  Fido  did  not  un 
derstand  it  at  all.  He  lolled  in  the  grass, 
cooling  his  tongue  on  the  clover  bloom,  and 
puzzling  his  brain  to  know  why  his  little 
masters  were  so  quiet  all  at  once. 

"I  wish  I  were  a  man,"  said  Abner,  rue 
fully.  "I  want  to  be  somebody  and  do 
something.  It  is  very  hard  to  be  a  little 
boy  so  long  and  to  have  no  companions  but 
little  boys  and  girls,  to  see  nothing  but  these 
same  old  trees  and  this  same  high  grass,  and 
to  hear  nothing  but  the  same  bird-songs 
from  one  day  to  another." 

"That  is  true,"  said  Seth.  "I,  too,  am 
very  tired  of  being  a  little  boy,  and  I  long  to 
go  out  into  the  world  and  be  a  man  like  my 
gran'pa  or  my  father  or  my  uncles.  With 
nothing  to  look  at  but  those  distant  hills 
and  the  river  in  the  valley,  my  eyes  are 
wearied;  and  I  shall  be  very  happy  when  I 
am  big  enough  to  leave  this  stupid  place." 

Had  Fido  understood  their  words  he  would 

have  chided  them,  for  the  little  dog  loved 

his  home  and  had  no  thought  of  any  other 

pleasure  than  romping  through  the  orchard 

158 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

and  playing  with  his  little  masters  all  the 
day.  But  Fido  did  not  understand  them. 

The  clover  bloom  heard  them  with  sad 
ness.  Had  they  but  listened  in  turn  they 
would  have  heard  the  clover  saying  softly : 
"Stay  with  me  while  you  may,  little  boys; 
trample  me  with  your  merry  feet;  let  me 
feel  the  imprint  of  your  curly  heads  and  kiss 
the  sunburn  on  your  little  cheeks.  Love 
me  while  you  may,  for  when  you  go  away 
you  never  will  come  back." 

The  bellflower-tree  heard  them,  too,  and 
she  waved  her  great,  strong  branches  as  if 
she  would  caress  the  impatient  little  lads, 
and  she  whispered:  "  Do  not  think  of  leav 
ing  me:  you  are  children,  and  you  know 
nothing  of  the  world  beyond  those  distant 
hills.  It  is  full  of  trouble  and  care  and  sor 
row;  abide  here  in  this  quiet  spot  till  you 
are  prepared  to  meet  the  vexations  of  that 
outer  world.  We  are  for  you, —  we  trees 
and  grass  and  birds  and  bees  and  flowers. 
Abide  with  us,  and  learn  the  wisdom  we 
teach." 

The  cricket  in  the  raspberry-hedge  heard 
them,  and  she  chirped,  oh!  so  sadly:  "You 

>  59 


A    LITTLE    BOOK   OF 

will  go  out  into  the  world  and  leave  us  and 
never  think  of  us  again  till  it  is  too  late 
to  return.  Open  your  ears,  little  boys,  and 
hear  my  song  of  contentment." 

So  spake  the  clover  bloom  and  the  bell- 
flower-tree  and  the  cricket;  and  in  like  man 
ner  the  robin  that  nested  in  the  linden  over 
yonder,  and  the  big  bumblebee  that  lived  in 
the  hole  under  the  pasture  gate,  and  the 
butterfly  and  the  wild  rose  pleaded  with 
them,  each  in  his  own  way ;  but  the  little 
boys  did  not  heed  them,  so  eager  were  their 
desires  to  go  into  and  mingle  with  the  great 
world  beyond  those  distant  hills. 

Many  years  went  by ;  and  at  last  Seth  and 
Abner  grew  to  manhood,  and  the  time  was 
come  when  they  were  to  go  into  the  world 
and  be  brave,  strong  men.  Fido  had  been 
dead  a  long  time.  They  had  made  him  a 
grave  under  the  bellflower-tree, — yes,  just 
where  he  had  romped  with  the  two  little 
boys  that  August  afternoon  Fido  lay  sleep 
ing  amid  the  humming  of  the  bees  and  the 
perfume  of  the  clover.  But  Seth  and  Abner 
did  not  think  of  Fido  now,  nor  did  they  give 
even  a  passing  thought  to  any  of  their  old 
160 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

friends, —  the  bellflower-tree,  the  clover,  the 
cricket,  and  the  robin.  Their  hearts  beat 
with  exultation.  They  were  men,  and  they 
were  going  beyond  the  hills  to  know  and 
try  the  world. 

They  were  equipped  for  that  struggle,  not 
in  a  vain,  frivolous  way,  but  as  good  and 
brave  young  men  should  be.  A  gentle  mo 
ther  had  counselled  them,  a  prudent  father 
had  advised  them,  and  they  had  gathered 
from  the  sweet  things  of  Nature  much  of 
that  wisdom  before  which  all  knowledge  is 
as  nothing.  So  they  were  fortified.  They 
went  beyond  the  hills  and  came  into  the 
West.  How  great  and  busy  was  the  world, 
—  how  great  and  busy  it  was  here  in  the 
West!  What  a  rush  and  noise  and  turmoil 
and  seething  and  surging,  and  how  keenly 
did  the  brothers  have  to  watch  and  struggle 
for  vantage  ground.  Withal,  they  pros 
pered;  the  counsel  of  the  mother,  the  ad 
vice  of  the  father,  the  wisdom  of  the  grass 
and  flowers  and  trees,  were  much  to  them, 
and  they  prospered.  Honor  and  riches 
came  to  them,  and  they  were  happy.  But 
amid  it  all,  how  seldom  they  thought  of  the 

161 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

little  home  among  the  circling  hills  where 
they  had  learned  the  first  sweet  lessons  of 
life! 

And  now  they  were  old  and  gray.  They 
lived  in  splendid  mansions,  and  all  people 
paid  them  honor. 

One  August  day  a  grim  messenger  stood 
in  Sethi's  presence  and  beckoned  to  him. 

"Who  are  you?"  cried  Seth.  "What 
strange  power  have  you  over  me  that  the 
very  sight  of  you  chills  my  blood  and  stays 
the  beating  of  my  heart  ?  " 

Then  the  messenger  threw  aside  his  mask, 
and  Seth  saw  that  he  was  Death.  Seth 
made  no  outcry;  he  knew  what  the  sum 
mons  meant,  and  he  was  content.  But  he 
sent  for  Abner. 

And  when  Abner  came,  Seth  was  stretched 
upon  his  bed,  and  there  was  a  strange  look 
in  his  eyes  and  a  flush  upon  his  cheeks,  as 
though  a  fatal  fever  had  laid  hold  on  him. 

"You  shall  not  die!"  cried  Abner,  and 
he  threw  himself  about  his  brother's  neck 
and  wept. 

But  Seth  bade  Abner  cease  his  outcry. 
"  Sit  here  by  my  bedside  and  talk  with  me," 
162 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

said  he,  "and  let  us  speak  of  the  Hampshire 
hills." 

A  great  wonder  overcame  Abner.  With 
reverence  he  listened,  and  as  he  listened  a 
sweet  peace  seemed  to  steal  into  his  soul. 

"I  am  prepared  for  Death,"  said  Seth, 
"and  I  will  go  with  Death  this  day.  Let 
us  talk  of  our  childhood  now,  for,  after  all 
the  battle  with  this  great  world,  it  is  pleas 
ant  to  think  and  speak  of  our  boyhood 
among  the  Hampshire  hills." 

"Say  on,  dear  brother,"  said  Abner. 

"I  am  thinking  of  an  August  day  long 
ago,"  said  Seth,  solemnly  and  softly.  "It 
was  so  very  long  ago,  and  yet  it  seems  only 
yesterday.  We  were  in  the  orchard  to 
gether,  under  the  bellflower-tree,  and  our 
little  dog  — 

"Fido,"  said  Abner,  remembering  it  all, 
as  the  years  came  back. 

"Fido  and  you  and  I,  under  the  bell- 
flower-tree,"  said  Seth.  "How  we  had 
played,  and  how  weary  we  were,  and  how 
cool  the  grass  was,  and  how  sweet  was  the 
fragrance  of  the  flowers!  Can  you  remem 
ber  it,  brother?" 

'63 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Abner,  "and  I  re 
member  how  we  lay  among  the  clover  and 
looked  off  at  the  distant  hills  and  wondered 
of  the  world  beyond." 

"And  amid  our  wonderings  and  long 
ings,"  said  Seth,  "how  the  old  bellflower- 
tree  seemed  to  stretch  her  kind  arms  down 
to  us  as  if  she  would  hold  us  away  from 
that  world  beyond  the  hills." 

"And  now  I  can  remember  that  the  clover 
whispered  to  us,  and  the  cricket  in  the  rasp 
berry-hedge  sang  to  us  of  contentment," 
said  Abner. 

"The  robin,  too,  carolled  in  the  linden." 

"It  is  very  sweet  to  remember  it  now," 
said  Seth.  "How  blue  and  hazy  the  hills 
looked;  how  cool  the  breeze  blew  up  from 
the  river;  how  like  a  silver  lake  the  old 
pickerel  pond  sweltered  under  the  summer 
sun  over  beyond  the  pasture  and  broom- 
corn,  and  how  merry  was  the  music  of  the 
birds  and  bees! " 

So  these  old  men,  who  had  been  little 
boys  together,  talked  of  the  August  after 
noon  when  with  Fido  they  had  romped  in 
the  orchard  and  rested  beneath  the  bell- 
164 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

flower-tree.  And  Seth's  voice  grew  fainter, 
and  his  eyes  were,  oh!  so  dim;  but  to  the 
very  last  he  spoke  of  the  dear  old  days  and 
the  orchard  and  the  clover  and  the  Hamp 
shire  hills.  And  when  Seth  fell  asleep  for 
ever,  Abner  kissed  his  brother's  lips  and 
knelt  at  the  bedside  and  said  the  prayer  his 
mother  had  taught  him. 

In  the  street  without  there  was  the  noise 
of  passing  carts,  the  cries  of  tradespeople, 
and  all  the  bustle  of  a  great  and  busy  city; 
but,  looking  upon  Seth's  dear,  dead  face, 
Abner  could  hear  only  the  music  voices  of 
birds  and  crickets  and  summer  winds  as  he 
had  heard  them  with  Seth  when  they  were 
little  boys  together,  back  among  the  Hamp 
shire  hills. 

1885. 


,65 


EZRA'S  THANKSGIVIN'  OUT  WEST 


EZRA  had  written  a  letter  to  the  home 
folks,  and  in  it  he  had  complained  that 
never  before  had  he  spent  such  a  weary, 
lonesome  day  as  this  Thanksgiving  day  had 
been.  Having  finished  this  letter,  he  sat  for 
a  long  time  gazing  idly  into  the  open  fire 
that  snapped  cinders  all  over  the  hearthstone 
and  sent  its  red  forks  dancing  up  the  chim 
ney  to  join  the  winds  that  frolicked  and 
gambolled  across  the  Kansas  prairies  that 
raw  November  night.  It  had  rained  hard 
all  day,  and  was  cold;  and  although  the 
open  fire  made  every  honest  effort  to  be 
cheerful,  Ezra,  as  he  sat  in  front  of  it  in  the 
wooden  rocker  and  looked  down  into  the 
glowing  embers,  experienced  a  dreadful  feel 
ing  of  loneliness  and  homesickness. 
1 60 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

"I  'm  sick  o'  Kansas,"  said  Ezra  to  him 
self.  "  Here  I  've  been  in  this  plaguy  coun 
try  for  goin'  on  a  year,  and  —  yes,  I  'm  sick 
of  it,  powerful  sick  of  it.  What  a  miser'ble 
Thanksgivin'  this  has  been!  They  don't 
know  what  Thanksgivin'  is  out  this  way. 
I  wish  I  was  back  in  ol'  Mass'chusetts— 
that  's  the  country  for  me,  and  they  hev  the 
kind  o'  Thanksgivin'  I  like!" 

Musing  in  this  strain,  while  the  rain  went 
patter-patter  on  the  window-panes,  Ezra  saw 
a  strange  sight  in  the  fireplace, — yes,  right 
among  the  embers  and  the  crackling  flames 
Ezra  saw  a  strange,  beautiful  picture  unfold 
and  spread  itself  out  like  a  panorama. 

"How  very  wonderful!"  murmured  the 
young  man.  Yet  he  did  not  take  his  eyes 
away,  for  the  picture  soothed  him  and  he 
loved  to  look  upon  it. 

"It  is  a  pictur'  of  long  ago,"  said  Ezra, 
softly.  "  I  had  like  to  forgot  it,  but  now  it 
comes  back  to  me  as  nat'ral-like  as  an  ol' 
friend.  An'  I  seem  to  be  a  part  of  it,  an'  the 
feelin'  of  that  time  comes  back  with  the 
pictur',  too." 

Ezra  did  not  stir.  His  head  rested  upon 
170 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

his  hand,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
shadows  in  the  firelight. 

"  It  is  a  pictur'  of  the  ol'  home,"  said  Ezra 
to  himself.  "  I  am  back  there  in  Belcher- 
town,  with  the  Holyoke  hills  up  north  an' 
the  Berkshire  mountains  a-loomin'  up  gray 
an'  misty-like  in  the  western  horizon.  Seems 
as  if  it  wuz  early  mornin' ;  everything  is  still, 
and  it  is  so  cold  when  we  boys  crawl  out  o' 
bed  that,  if  it  wuz  n't  Thanksgivin'  mornin', 
we  'd  crawl  back  again  an'  wait  for  Mother 
to  call  us.  But  it  is  Thanksgivin'  mornin', 
an'  we  're  goin'  skatin'  down  on  the  pond. 
The  squealin'  o'  the  pigs  has  told  us  it  is 
five  o'clock,  and  we  must  hurry  ;  we  're 
goin'  to  call  by  for  the  Dickerson  boys  an' 
Hiram  Peabody,  an'  we  've  got  to  hyper! 
Brother  Amos  gets  on  'bout  half  o'  my  clo'es, 
an'  I  get  on  'bout  half  o'  his,  but  it  's  all 
the  same;  they  are  stout,  warm  clo'es,  and 
they  're  big  enough  to  fit  any  of  us  boys,— 
Mother  looked  out  for  that  when  she  made 
'em.  When  we  go  down-stairs  we  find  the 
girls  there,  all  bundled  up  nice  an'  warm,— 
Mary  an'  Helen  an'  Cousin  Irene.  They  're 
goin'  with  us,  an'  we  all  start  out  tiptoe  and 
171 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

quiet-like  so  's  not  to  wake  up  the  ol'  folks. 
The  ground  is  frozen  hard;  we  stub  our 
toes  on  the  frozen  ruts  in  the  road.  When 
we  come  to  the  minister's  house,  Laura  is 
standin'  on  the  front  stoop,  a-waitin'  for 
us.  Laura  is  the  minister's  daughter.  She's  a 
friend  o'  Sister  Helen's — pretty  asadag'err'o- 
type,  an'  gentle-like  and  tender.  Laura  lets 
me  carry  her  skates,  an'  I  'm  glad  of  it,  al 
though  I  have  my  hands  full  already  with  the 
lantern,  the  hockies,  and  the  rest.  Hiram 
Peabody  keeps  us  waitin',  for  he  has  over 
slept  himself,  an'  when  he  comes  trottin'  out 
at  last  the  girls  make  fun  of  him, — all  except 
Sister  Mary,  an'  she  sort  o'  sticks  up  for 
Hiram,  an'  we  're  all  so  'cute  we  kind  o'  cal- 
c'late  we  know  the  reason  why. 

"And  now,"  said  Ezra,  softly,  "the  pic- 
tur'  changes ;  seems  as  if  I  could  see  the  pond. 
The  ice  is  like  a  black  lookin'-glass,  and 
Hiram  Peabody  slips  up  the  first  thing,  an' 
down  he  comes  lickety-split,  an'  weall  laugh, 
—  except  Sister  Mary,  an'  she  says  it  is  very 
imp'lite  to  laugh  at  other  folks'  misfortunes. 
Ough!  how  cold  it  is,  and  how  my  fingers 
ache  with  the  frost  when  I  take  off  my  mit- 
172 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

tens  to  strap  on  Laura's  skates!  But,  oh, 
how  my  cheeks  burn!  And  how  careful  I 
am  not  to  hurt  Laura,  an'  how  I  ask  her  if 
that 's  'tight  enough,'  an'  how  she  tells  me 
'jist  a  little  tighter,'  and  how  we  two  keep 
foolin'  along  till  the  others  hev  gone  an'  we 
are  left  alone!  An'  how  quick  I  get  my  own 
skates  strapped  on, — none  o'  your  new-fan 
gled  skates  with  springs  an'  plates  an'  clamps 
an'  such,  but  honest,  ol'-fashioned  wooden 
ones  with  steel  runners  that  curl  up  over 
my  toes  an'  have  a  bright  brass  button  on 
the  end !  How  I  strap  'em  and  lash  'em  and 
buckle  'em  on!  An'  Laura  waits  for  me  an' 
tells  me  to  be  sure  to  get  'em  on  tight  enough, 
—  why,  bless  me!  after  I  once  got  'em 
strapped  on,  if  them  skates  hed  come  off, 
the  feet  w'u'd  ha'  come  with  'em !  An'  now 
away  we  go, —  Laura  an'  me.  Around  the 
bend  —  near  the  medder  where  Si  Barker's 
dog  killed  a  woodchuck  last  summer — we 
meet  the  rest.  We  forget  all  about  the  cold. 
We  run  races  an'  play  snap  the  whip,  an'  cut 
all  sorts  o'  didoes,  an'  we  never  mind  the 
pick'rel  weed  that  is  froze  in  on  the  ice  an' 
trips  us  up  every  time  we  cut  the  outside 

'73 


A    LITTLE    BOOK   OF 

edge;  an'  then  we  boys  jump  over  the  air 
holes,  an'  the  girls  stan'  by  an'  scream  an' 
tell  us  they  know  we  're  agoin'  to  drownd 
ourselves.  So  the  hours  go,  an'  it  is  sun-up 
at  last,  an'  Sister  Helen  says  we  must  be  get- 
tin'  home.  When  we  take  our  skates  off, 
our  feet  feel  as  if  they  were  wood.  Laura 
has  lost  her  tippet;  I  lend  her  mine,  an'  she 
kind  o'  blushes.  The  old  pond  seems  glad 
to  have  us  go,  and  the  fire-hangbird's  nest 
in  the  wilier-tree  waves  us  good-by.  Laura 
promises  to  come  over  to  our  house  in  the 
evenin',  and  so  we  break  up. 

"Seems  now, "  continued  Ezra,  musingly, 
— "seems  now  as  if  I  could  see  us  all  at 
breakfast.  The  race  on  the  pond  has  made 
us  hungry,  and  Mother  says  she  never  knew 
anybody  else's  boys  that  had  such  capac'ties 
as  hers.  It  is  the  Yankee  Thanksgivin' 
breakfast, —  sausages  an'  fried  potatoes,  an' 
buckwheat  cakes  an'  syrup, —  maple  syrup, 
mind  ye,  for  Father  has  his  own  sugar-bush, 
and  there  was  a  big  run  o'  sap  last  season. 
Mother  says,  '  Ezry  an'  Amos,  won't  you 
never  get  through  eatin'  ?  We  want  to 
clear  off  the  table,  for  there  's  pies  to  make, 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

an'  nuts  to  crack,  and  laws  sakes  alive! 
the  turkey  's  got  to  be  stuffed  yit!'  Then 
how  we  all  fly  round!  Mother  sends  Helen 
up  into  the  attic  to  get  a  squash  while 
Mary  's  makin'  the  pie-crust.  Amos  an'  1 
crack  the  walnuts, —  they  call  'em  hickory 
nuts  out  in  this  pesky  country  of  sage-brush 
and  pasture  land.  The  walnuts  are  hard, 
and  it  's  all  we  can  do  to  crack  'em.  Ev'ry 
once  'n  a  while  one  on  'em  slips  outer  our 
fingers  an'  goes  dancin'  over  the  floor  or 
flies  into  the  pan  Helen  is  squeezin'  pumpkin 
into  through  the  col'nder.  Helen  says  we  're 
shif'less  an'  good  for  nothin'  but  frivollin'; 
but  Mother  tells  us  how  to  crack  the  wal 
nuts  so  's  not  to  let  'em  fly  all  over  the 
room,  an'  so  's  not  to  be  all  jammed  to 
pieces  like  the  walnuts  was  down  at  the 
party  at  the  Peasleys'  last  winter.  An'  now 
here  comes  Tryphena  Foster,  with  her  ging 
ham  gown  an'  muslin  apron  on;  her  folks 
have  gone  up  to  Amherst  for  Thanksgivin', 
an'  Tryphena  has  come  over  to  help  our 
folks  get  dinner.  She  thinks  a  great  deal 
o'  Mother,  'cause  Mother  teaches  her  Sun 
day-school  class  an'  says  Tryphena  oughter 

'75 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

marry  a  missionary.  There  is  bustle  every 
where,  the  rattle  of  pans  an'  the  clatter  of 
dishes;  an'  the  new  kitch'n  stove  begins  to 
warm  up  an' git  red,  till  Helen  loses  her  wits 
an'  is  flustered,  an'  sez  she  never  could  git 
the  hang  o'  that  stove's  dampers. 

"An'  now,"  murmured  Ezra,  gently,  as 
a  tone  of  deeper  reverence  crept  into  his 
voice,  "I  can  see  Father  sittin'  all  by  him 
self  in  the  parlor.  Father's  hair  is  very  gray, 
and  there  are  wrinkles  on  his  honest  old 
face.  He  is  lookin'  through  the  winder  at 
the  Holyoke  hills  over  yonder,  and  I  can 
guess  he  's  thinkin'  of  the  time  when  he 
wuz  a  boy  like  me  an'  Amos,  an'  useter 
climb  over  them  hills  an'  kill  rattlesnakes 
an'  hunt  partridges.  Or  does  n't  his  eyes 
quite  reach  the  Holyoke  hills  ?  Do  they 
fall  kind  o'  lovingly  but  sadly  on  the  little 
buryin'-ground  jest  beyond  the  village  ? 
Ah,  Father  knows  that  spot,  an'  he  loves 
it,  too,  for  there  are  treasures  there  whose 
memory  he  would  n't  swap  for  all  the  world 
could  give.  So,  while  there  is  a  kind  o'  mist 
in  Father's  eyes,  I  can  see  he  is  dreamin'- 
like  of  sweet  an'  tender  things,  and  a-com- 
176 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

munin'  with  memory, — hearin'  voices  I 
never  heard  an'  feelin'  the  tech  of  hands  I 
never  pressed;  an'  seein'  Father's  peaceful 
face  I  find  it  hard  to  think  of  a  Thanksgivin' 
sweeter  than  Father's  is. 

"The  pictur'  in  the  firelight  changes 
now,"  said  Ezra,  "an'  seems  as  if  I  wuz  in 
the  old  frame  meetin'-house.  The  meetin'- 
house  is  on  the  hill,  and  meetin'  begins  at 
half-pas'  ten.  Our  pew  is  well  up  in  front, 
—  seems  as  if  I  could  see  it  now.  It  has  a 
long  red  cushion  on  the  seat,  and  in  the 
hymn-book  rack  there  is  a  Bible  an'  a  couple 
of  Psalmodies.  We  walk  up  the  aisle  slow, 
and  Mother  goes  in  first;  then  comes  Mary, 
then  me,  then  Helen,  then  Amos,  and  then 
Father.  Father  thinks  it  is  jest  as  well  to 
have  one  o'  the  girls  set  in  between  me  an' 
Amos.  The  meetin'-house  is  full,  for  every 
body  goes  to  meetin'  Thanksgivin'  day.  The 
minister  reads  the  proclamation  an'  makes 
a  prayer,  an'  then  he  gives  out  a  psalm,  an' 
we  all  stan'  up  an'  turn  round  an'  join  the 
choir.  Sam  Merritt  has  come  up  from  Palmer 
to  spend  Thanksgivin'  with  the  ol'  folks,  an' 
he  is  singin'  tenor  to-day  in  his  ol'  place  in 
177 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

the  choir.  Some  folks  say  he  sings  won 
derful  well,  but  /  don't  like  Sam's  voice. 
Laura  sings  soprano  in  the  choir,  and  Sam 
stands  next  to  her  an'  holds  the  book. 

"Seems  as  if  I  could  hear  the  minister's 
voice,  full  of  earnestness  an'  melody,  comin' 
from  'way  up  in  his  little  round  pulpit.  He 
is  tellin'  us  why  we  should  be  thankful, 
an',  as  he  quotes  Scriptur'  an'  Dr.  Watts, 
we  boys  wonder  how  anybody  can  remem 
ber  so  much  of  the  Bible.  Then  I  get  ner 
vous  and  worried.  Seems  to  me  the  minister 
was  never  comin'  to  lastly,  and  I  find  my 
self  wonderin'  whether  Laura  is  listenin'  to 
what  the  preachin'  is  about,  or  is  writin' 
notes  to  Sam  Merritt  in  the  back  of  the  tune- 
book.  I  get  thirsty,  too,  and  I  fidget  about 
till  Father  looks  at  me,  and  Mother  nudges 
Helen,  and  Helen  passes  it  along  to  me  with 
interest. 

"An'  then,"  continues  Ezra  in  his  revery, 
"when  the  last  hymn  is  given  out  an'  we 
stan'  up  ag'in  an'  join  the  choir,  I  am  glad  to 
see  that  Laura  is  singin'  outer  the  book  with 
Miss  Hubbard,  the  alto.  An'  goin'  out  o' 
meetin'  I  kind  of  edge  up  to  Laura  and  ask 
.78 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

her  if  I  kin  have  the  pleasure  of  seein'  her 
home. 

"An'  now  we  boys  all  go  out  on  the  Com 
mon  to  play  ball.  The  Enfield  boys  have 
come  over,  and,  as  all  the  Hampshire  county 
folks  know,  they  are  tough  fellers  to  beat. 
Gorham  Polly  keeps  tally,  because  he  has 
got  the  newest  jack-knife, —  oh,  how  slick 
it  whittles  the  old  broom-handle  Gorham 
picked  up  in  Packard's  store  an'  brought 
along  jest  to  keep  tally  on!  It  is  a  great 
game  of  ball ;  the  bats  are  broad  and  light, 
and  the  ball  is  small  and  soft.  But  the  En- 
field  boys  beat  us  at  last;  leastwise  they 
make  70  tallies  to  our  58,  when  Heman  Fitts 
knocks  the  ball  over  into  Aunt  Dorcas  East 
man's  yard,  and  Aunt  Dorcas  comes  out  an' 
picks  up  the  ball  an'  takes  it  into  the  house, 
an'  we  have  to  stop  playin'.  Then  Phineas 
Owens  allows  he  can  flop  any  boy  in  Bel- 
chertown,  an'  Moses  Baker  takes  him  up, 
an'  they  wrassle  like  two  tartars,  till  at  last 
Moses  tuckers  Phineas  out  an'  downs  him 
as  slick  as  a  whistle. 

"Then  we  all  go  home,  for  Thanksgivin' 
dinner  is  ready.  Two  long  tables  have  been 
179 


A    LITTLE    BOOK   OF 

made  into  one,  and  one  of  the  big  tablecloths 
Gran'ma  had  when  she  set  up  housekeepin' 
is  spread  over  'em  both.  We  all  set  round, 
Father,  Mother,  Aunt  Lydia  Holbrook,  Uncle 
Jason,  Mary,  Helen,  Tryphena  Foster,  Amos, 
and  me.  How  big  an'  brown  the  turkey  is, 
and  how  good  it  smells!  There  are  boun 
teous  dishes  of  mashed  potato,  turnip,  an' 
squash,  and  the  celery  is  very  white  and 
cold,  the  biscuits  are  light  an'  hot,  and  the 
stewed  cranberries  are  red  as  Laura's  cheeks. 
Amos  and  I  get  the  drumsticks;  Mary  wants 
the  wish-bone  to  put  over  the  door  for  Hiram, 
but  Helen  gets  it.  Poor  Mary,  she  always  did 
have  to  give  up  to  '  rushin'  Helen,'  as  we 
call  her.  The  pies, — oh,  what  pies  Mother 
makes ;  no  dyspepsia  in  'em,  but  good-nature 
an'  good  health  an'  hospitality!  Pumpkin 
pies,  mince  an'  apple  too,  and  then  a  big 
dish  of  pippins  an'  russets  an'  bellflowers, 
an',  last  of  all,  walnuts  with  cider  from  the 
Zebrina  Dickerson  farm !  I  tell  ye,  there  's  a 
Thanksgivin'  dinner  for  ye!  that 's  what  we 
get  in  old  Belchertown;  an'  that  's  the  kind 
of  livin'  that  makes  the  Yankees  so  all-fired 
good  an'  smart. 

1 80 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

"  But  the  best  of  all,"  said  Ezra,  very  softly 
to  himself, — "oh,  yes,  the  best  scene  in  all 
the  pictur'  is  when  evenin'  comes,  when  the 
lamps  are  lit  in  the  parlor,  when  the  neigh 
bors  come  in,  and  when  there  is  music  an' 
singin'  an'  games.  An'  it  's  this  part  o'  the 
pictur'  that  makes  me  homesick  now  and 
fills  my  heart  with  a  longin'  I  never  had  be 
fore;  an'  yet  it  sort  o'  mellows  an'  comforts 
me,  too.  Miss  Serena  Cadwell,  whose  beau 
was  killed  in  the  war,  plays  on  the  melodeon, 
and  we  all  sing, — all  on  us,  men,  women 
folks,  an'  children.  Sam  Merritt  is  there,  an' 
he  sings  a  tenor  song  about  love.  The  wo 
men  sort  of  whisper  round  that  he  's  goin'  to 
be  married  to  a  Palmer  lady  nex'  spring,  an' 
I  think  to  myself  I  never  heard  better  singin' 
than  Sam's.  Then  we  play  games,  proverbs, 
buzz,  clap-in-clap-out,  Copenhagen,  fox-an'- 
geese,  button-button-who  's-got-the-button, 
spin-the-platter,go-to-Jerusalem,  my-ship  's- 
come-in,  and  all  the  rest.  The  ol'  folks  play 
with  the  young  folks  just  as  nat'ral  as  can 
be;  and  we  all  laugh  when  Deacon  Hosea 
Cowles  hez  to  measure  six  yards  of  love  rib 
bon  with  Miss  Hepsy  Newton,  and  cut  each 

181 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

yard  with  a  kiss;  for  the  deacon  hez  been 
sort  o'  purrin'  round  Miss  Hepsy  for  goin'  on 
two  years.  Then,  aft'r  a  while,  when  Mary 
an'  Helen  bring  in  the  cookies,  nut-cakes, 
cider,  an'  apples,  Mother  says:  'I  don't 
b'lieve  we  're  goin'  to  hev  enough  apples  to 
go  round ;  Ezry,  I  guess  I  '11  have  to  get  you 
to  go  down-cellar  for  some  more.'  Then  I 
says:  'All  right,  Mother,  I  '11  go,  providin' 
some  one  '11  go  along  an'  hold  the  candle.' 
An'  when  I  say  this  I  look  right  at  Laura  and 
she  blushes.  Then  Helen,  jest  for  meanness, 
says :  '  Ezry,  I  s'pose  you  ain't  willin'  to  have 
your  fav'rite  sister  go  down-cellar  with  you 
an'  catch  her  death  o'  cold  ? '  But  Mary,  who 
hez  been  showin'  Hiram  Peabody  the  phot'- 
graph  album  for  more  'n  an  hour,  comes  to 
the  rescue  an'  makes  Laura  take  the  candle, 
and  she  shows  Laura  how  to  hold  it  so  it 
won't  go  out. 

"The  cellar  is  warm  an'  dark.  There  are 
cobwebs  all  between  the  rafters  an'  every 
where  else  except  on  the  shelves  where 
Mother  keeps  the  butter  an'  eggs  an'  other 
things  that  would  freeze  in  the  butt'ry  up 
stairs.  The  apples  are  in  bar'ls  up  against 
182 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

the  wall,  near  the  potater-bin.  How  fresh 
an'  sweet  they  smell!  Laura  thinks  she 
sees  a  mouse,  an'  she  trembles  an'  wants 
to  jump  up  on  the  pork-bar'l,  but  I  tell  her 
that  there  sha'n't  no  mouse  hurt  her  while 
I  'm  round;  and  I  mean  it,  too,  for  the  sight 
of  Laura  a-tremblin'  makes  me  as  strong  as 
one  of  Father's  steers.  '  What  kind  of  ap 
ples  do  you  like  best,  Ezry  ?'  asks  Laura, — 
'  russets  or  greenin's  or  crow-eggs  or  bell- 
flowers  or  Baldwins  or  pippins  ? '  'I  like 
the  Baldwins  best,'  says  I,  "coz  they  've 
got  red  cheeks  jest  like  yours.'  'Why, 
Ezry  Thompson!  how  you  talk!'  says 
Laura.  '  You  oughter  be  ashamed  of  your 
self!'  But  when  I  get  the  dish  filled  up 
with  apples  there  ain't  a  Baldwin  in  all  the 
lot  that  can  compare  with  the  bright  red  of 
Laura's  cheeks.  An'  Laura  knows  it,  too, 
an'  she  sees  the  mouse  ag'in,  an'  screams, 
and  then  the  candle  goes  out,  and  we  are  in 
a  dreadful  stew.  But  I,  bein'  almost  a  man, 
contrive  to  bear  up  under  it,  and  knowin' 
she  is  an  orph'n,  I  comfort  an'  encourage 
Laura  the  best  I  know  how,  and  we  are  al 
most  up-stairs  when  Mother  comes  to  the 
183 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

door  and  wants  to  know  what  has  kep'  us 
so  long.  Jest  as  if  Mother  does  n't  know ! 
Of  course  she  does;  an'  when  Mother  kisses 
Laura  good-by  that  night  there  is  in  the  act 
a  tenderness  that  speaks  more  sweetly  than 
even  Mother's  words. 

"It  is  so  like  Mother,"  mused  Ezra;  "so 
like  her  with  her  gentleness  an'  clingin'  love. 
Hers  is  the  sweetest  picture  of  all,  and  hers 
the  best  love." 

Dream  on,  Ezra;  dream  of  the  old  home 
with  its  dear  ones,  its  holy  influences,  and 
its  precious  inspiration, —  mother.  Dream 
on  in  the  far-away  firelight;  ana  as  the  an 
gel  hand  of  memory  unfolds  these  sacred 
visions,  with  thee  and  them  shall  abide,  like 
a  Divine  comforter,  the  spirit  of  thanks 
giving. 

1885. 


184 


LUDWIG  AND  ELOISE 


ONCE  upon  a  time  there  were  two 
youths  named  Herman  and  Ludwig; 
and  they  both  loved  Eloise,  the  daughter  of 
the  old  burgomaster.  Now,  the  old  bur 
gomaster  was  very  rich,  and  having  no 
child  but  Eloise,  he  was  anxious  that  she 
should  be  well  married  and  settled  in  life. 
''For,"  said  he,  "death  is  likely  to  come  to 
me  at  any  time:  I  am  old  and  feeble,  and  I 
want  to  see  my  child  sheltered  by  another's 
love  before  I  am  done  with  earth  forever." 
Eloise  was  much  beloved  by  all  the  youth 
in  the  village,  and  there  was  not  one  who 
would  not  gladly  have  taken  her  to  wife; 
but  none  loved  her  so  much  as  did  Herman 
and  Ludwig.  Nor  did  Eloise  care  for  any 
but  Herman  and  Ludwig,  and  she  loved 
Herman.  The  burgomaster  said:  "Choose 
187 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

whom  you  will  —  I  care  not!  So  long  as 
he  be  honest  I  will  have  him  for  a  son  and 
thank  Heaven  for  him." 

So  Eloise  chose  Herman,  and  all  said  she 
chose  wisely;  for  Herman  was  young  and 
handsome,  and  by  his  valor  had  won  dis 
tinction  in  the  army,  and  had  thrice  been 
complimented  by  the  general.  So  when 
the  brave  young  captain  led  Eloise  to  the 
altar  there  was  great  rejoicing  in  the  village. 
The  beaux,  forgetting  their  disappointments, 
and  the  maidens,  seeing  the  cause  of  all 
their  jealousy  removed,  made  merry  to 
gether;  and  it  was  said  that  never  had 
there  been  in  the  history  of  the  province 
an  event  so  joyous  as  was  the  wedding  of 
Herman  and  Eloise. 

But  in  all  the  village  there  was  one  aching 
heart.  Ludwig,  the  young  musician,  saw 
with  quiet  despair  the  maiden  he  loved  go 
to  the  altar  with  another.  He  had  known 
Eloise  from  childhood,  and  he  could  not 
say  when  his  love  of  her  began,  it  was  so 
very  long  ago;  but  now  he  knew  his  heart 
was  consumed  by  a  hopeless  passion.  Once, 
at  a  village  festival,  he  had  begun  to  speak 
«88 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

to  her  of  his  love;  but  Eloise  had  placed 
her  hand  kindly  upon  his  lips  and  told  him 
to  say  no  further,  for  they  had  always  been 
and  always  would  be  brother  and  sister. 
So  Ludwig  never  spoke  his  love  after  that, 
and  Eloise  and  he  were  as  brother  and  sis 
ter;  but  the  love  of  her  grew  always  within 
him,  and  he  had  no  thought  but  of  her. 

And  now,  when  Eloise  and  Herman  were 
wed,  Ludwig  feigned  that  he  had  received 
a  message  from  a  rich  relative  in  a  distant 
part  of  the  kingdom  bidding  him  come 
thither,  and  Ludwig  went  from  the  village 
and  was  seen  there  no  more. 

When  the  burgomaster  died  all  his  pos 
sessions  went  to  Herman  and  Eloise;  and 
they  were  accounted  the  richest  folk  in  the 
province,  and  so  good  and  charitable  were 
they  that  they  were  beloved  by  all.  Mean 
while  Herman  had  risen  to  greatness  in  the 
army,  for  by  his  valorous  exploits  he  had 
become  a  general,  and  he  was  much  en 
deared  to  the  king.  And  Eloise  and  Her 
man  lived  in  a  great  castle  in  the  midst  of 
a  beautiful  park,  and  the  people  came  and 
paid  them  reverence  there. 
189 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

And  no  one  in  all  these  years  spoke  of 
Ludwig.  No  one  thought  of  him.  Ludwig 
was  forgotten.  And  so  the  years  went  by. 

It  came  to  pass,  however,  that  from  a  far- 
distant  province  there  spread  the  fame  of  a 
musician  so  great  that  the  king  sent  for 
him  to  visit  the  court.  No  one  knew  the 
musician's  name  nor  whence  he  came,  for 
he  lived  alone  and  would  never  speak  of 
himself;  but  his  music  was  so  tender  and 
beautiful  that  it  was  called  heart-music,  and 
he  himself  was  called  the  Master.  He  was 
old  and  bowed  with  infirmities,  but  his 
music  was  always  of  youth  and  love;  it 
touched  every  heart  with  its  simplicity  and 
pathos,  and  all  wondered  how  this  old  and 
broken  man  could  create  so  much  of  tender 
ness  and  sweetness  on  these  themes. 

But  when  the  king  sent  for  the  Master  to 
come  to  court  the  Master  returned  him  an 
swer:  "No,  I  am  old  and  feeble.  To  leave 
my  home  would  weary  me  unto  death. 
Let  me  die  here  as  I  have  lived  these  long 
years,  weaving  my  music  for  hearts  that 
need  my  solace." 

Then  the  people  wondered.  But  the  king 
190 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

was  not  angry ;  in  pity  he  sent  the  Master  a 
purse  of  gold,  and  bade  him  come  or  not 
come,  as  he  willed.  Such  honor  had  never 
before  been  shown  any  subject  in  the  king 
dom,  and  all  the  people  were  dumb  with 
amazement.  But  the  Master  gave  the  purse 
of  gold  to  the  poor  of  the  village  wherein 
he  lived. 

In  those  days  Herman  died,  full  of  honors 
and  years,  and  there  was  a  great  lamenta 
tion  in  the  land,  for  Herman  was  beloved 
by  all.  And  Eloise  wept  unceasingly  and 
would  not  be  comforted. 

On  the  seventh  day  after  Herman  had 
been  buried  there  came  to  the  castle  in  the 
park  an  aged  and  bowed  man  who  carried 
in  his  white  and  trembling  hands  a  violin. 
His  kindly  face  was  deeply  wrinkled,  and 
a  venerable  beard  swept  down  upon  his 
breast.  He  was  weary  and  foot-sore,  but 
he  heeded  not  the  words  of  pity  bestowed 
on  him  by  all  who  beheld  him  tottering  on 
his  way.  He  knocked  boldly  at  the  castle 
gate,  and  demanded  to  be  brought  into  the 
presence  of  Eloise. 

And  Eloise  said:  "Bid  him  enter;  per- 
191 


A    LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

chance  his  music  will  comfort  my  breaking 
heart." 

Then,  when  the  old  man  had  come  into 
her  presence,  behold !  he  was  the  Master, — 
ay,  the  Master  whose  fame  was  in  every 
land,  whose  heart-music  was  on  every 
tongue. 

"If  thou  art  indeed  the  Master,"  said 
Eloise,  "let  thy  music  be  balm  to  my  chas 
tened  spirit." 

The  Master  said:  "Ay,  Eloise,  I  will  com 
fort  thee  in  thy  sorrow,  and  thy  heart  shall 
be  stayed,  and  a  great  joy  will  come  to 
thee." 

Then  the  Master  drew  his  bow  across  the 
strings,  and  lo!  forthwith  there  arose  such 
harmonies  as  Eloise  had  never  heard  before. 
Gently,  persuasively,  they  stole  upon  her 
senses  and  filled  her  soul  with  an  ecstasy 
of  peace. 

"  Is  it  Herman  that  speaks  to  me  ?  "  cried 
Eloise.  "It  is  his  voice  I  hear,  and  it 
speaks  to  me  of  love.  With  thy  heart-mu 
sic,  O  Master,  all  the  sweetness  of  his  life 
comes  back  to  comfort  me!  " 

The  Master  did  not  pause;  as  he  played, 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

it  seemed  as  if  each  tender  word  and  caress 
of  Herman's  life  was  stealing  back  on  mu 
sic's  pinions  to  soothe  the  wounds  that  death 
had  made. 

"It  is  the  song  of  our  love-life,"  mur 
mured  Eloise.  "  How  full  of  memories  it 
is  —  what  tenderness  and  harmony  —  and 
oh!  what  peace  it  brings!  But  tell  me, 
Master,  what  means  this  minor  chord, — 
this  undertone  of  sadness  and  of  pathos 
that  flows  like  a  deep,  unfathomable  current 
throughout  it  all,  and  wailing,  weaves  itself 
about  thy  theme  of  love  and  happiness  with 
its  weird  and  subtile  influences  ?" 

Then  the  Master  said:  "It  is  that  shade 
of  sorrow  and  sacrifice,  O  Eloise,  that  ever 
makes  the  picture  of  love  more  glorious. 
An  undertone  of  pathos  has  been  my  part 
in  all  these  years  to  symmetrize  the  love  of 
Herman  and  Eloise.  The  song  of  thy  love 
is  beautiful,  and  who  shall  say  it  is  not 
beautified  by  the  sad  undertone  of  Ludwig's 
broken  heart  ?  " 

"Thou art  Ludwig!"  cried  Eloise.  "Thou 
art  Ludwig,  who  didst  love  me,  and  hast 
come  to  comfort  me  who  loved  thee  not! " 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

The  Master  indeed  was  Ludwig;  but  when 
they  hastened  to  do  him  homage  he  heard 
them  not,  for  with  that  last  and  sweetest 
heart-song  his  head  sank  upon  his  breast, 
and  he  was  dead. 

1885. 


194 


ifco'g  Hitrie  f  rienb 


FIDO'S  LITTLE   FRIEND 


ONE  morning  in  May  Fido  sat  on  the  front 
porch,  and  he  was  deep  in  thought. 
He  was  wondering  whether  the  people  who 
were  moving  into  the  next  house  were  as 
cross  and  unfeeling  as  the  people  who  had 
just  moved  out.  He  hoped  they  were  not, 
for  the  people  who  had  just  moved  out 
had  never  treated  Fido  with  that  respect  and 
kindness  which  Fido  believed  he  was  on 
all  occasions  entitled  to. 

"The  new-comers  must  be  nice  folks," 
said  Fido  to  himself,  "for  their  feather-beds 
look  big  and  comfortable,  and  their  baskets 
are  all  ample  and  generous,  —  and  see,  there 
goes  a  bright  gilt  cage,  and  there  is  a  plump 
yellow  canary  bird  in  it!  Oh,  how  glad 
Mrs.  Tabby  will  be  to  see  it, — she  so  dotes 
on  dear  little  canary  birds!  " 

'97 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

Mrs.  Tabby  was  the  old  brindled  cat,  who 
was  the  mother  of  the  four  cunning  little 
kittens  in  the  hay-mow.  Fido  had  heard 
her  remark  very  purringly  only  a  few  days 
ago  that  she  longed  for  a  canary  bird,  just 
to  amuse  her  little  ones  and  give  them  cor 
rect  musical  ears.  Honest  old  Fido!  There 
was  no  guile  in  his  heart,  and  he  never 
dreamed  there  was  in  all  the  wide  world  such 
a  sin  as  hypocrisy.  So  when  Fido  saw  the 
little  canary  bird  in  the  cage  he  was  glad  for 
Mrs.  Tabby's  sake. 

While  Fido  sat  on  the  front  porch  and 
watched  the  people  moving  into  the  next 
house  another  pair  of  eyes  peeped  out  of  the 
old  hollow  maple  over  the  way.  This  was 
the  red-headed  woodpecker,  who  had  a 
warm,  cosey  nest  far  down  in  the  old  hollow 
maple,  and  in  the  nest  there  were  four  beau 
tiful  eggs,  of  which  the  red-headed  wood 
pecker  was  very  proud. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Fido,"  called  the 
red-headed  woodpecker  from  her  high  perch. 
' '  You  are  out  bright  and  early  to-day.  And 
what  do  you  think  of  our  new  neighbors?" 

"Upon  my  word,  I  cannot  tell,"  replied 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

Fido,  wagging  his  tail  cheerily,  "for  I  am 
not  acquainted  with  them.  But  I  have  been 
watching  them  closely,  and  by  to-day  noon 
I  think  I  shall  be  on  speaking  terms  with 
them, —  provided,  of  course,  they  are  not 
the  cross,  unkind  people  our  old  neighbors 
were." 

"  Oh,  I  do  so  hope  there  are  no  little  boys 
in  the  family,"  sighed  the  red-headed  wood 
pecker;  and  then  she  added,  with  much  de 
termination  and  a  defiant  toss  of  her  beautiful 
head:  "I  hate  little  boys!" 

"Why  so?"  inquired  Fido.  "As  for  my 
self,  I  love  little  boys.  I  have  always  found 
them  the  pleasantest  of  companions.  Why 
do  you  dislike  them  ?" 

"  Because  they  are  wicked,"  said  the  red 
headed  woodpecker.  "They  climb  trees 
and  break  up  the  nests  we  have  worked  so 
hard  to  build,  and  they  steal  away  our  lovely 
eggs  —  oh,  I  hate  little  boys!" 

"  Good  little  boys  don't  steal  birds'  eggs," 
said  Fido,  "  and  I  'm  sure  I  never  would  play 
with  a  bad  boy." 

But  the  red-headed  woodpecker  insisted 
that  all  little  boys  were  wicked;  and,  firm 
199 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

in  this  faith,  she  flew  away  to  the  linden  over 
yonder,  where,  she  had  heard  the  thrush  say, 
there  lived  a  family  of  fat  white  grubs.  The 
red-headed  woodpecker  wanted  her  break 
fast,  and  it  would  have  been  hard  to  find  a 
more  palatable  morsel  for  her  than  a  white 
fat  grub. 

As  for  Fido,  he  sat  on  the  front  porch  and 
watched  the  people  moving  in.  And  as  he 
watched  them  he  thought  of  what  the  red 
headed  woodpecker  had  said,  and  he  won 
dered  whether  it  could  be  possible  for  little 
boys  to  be  so  cruel  as  to  rob  birds'  nests. 
As  he  brooded  over  this  sad  possibility,  his 
train  of  thought  was  interrupted  by  the  sound 
of  a  voice  that  fell  pleasantly  on  his  ears. 

"  Goggie,  goggie,  goggie !  "  said  the  voice. 
"Turn  here,  'ittle  goggie — turn  here,  gog 
gie,  goggie,  goggie!" 

Fido  looked  whence  the  voice  seemed  to 
come,  and  he  saw  a  tiny  figure  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fence, — a  cunning  baby-figure  in 
the  yard  that  belonged  to  the  house  where 
the  new  neighbors  were  moving  in.  A  sec 
ond  glance  assured  Fido  that  the  calling 
stranger  was  a  little  boy  not  more  than  three 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

years  old,  wearing  a  pretty  dress,  and  a  broad 
hat  that  crowned  his  yellow  hair  and  shaded 
his  big  blue  eyes  and  dimpled  face.  The 
sight  was  a  pleasing  one,  and  Fido  vibrated 
his  tail, — very  cautiously,  however,  for  Fido 
was  not  quite  certain  that  the  little  boy  meant 
his  greeting  for  him,  and  Fido's  sad  expe 
riences  with  the  old  neighbors  had  made  him 
wary  about  scraping  acquaintances  too  has 
tily. 

"Turn,  'ittle  goggie!"  persisted  the  prat 
tling  stranger,  and,  as  if  to  encourage  Fido, 
the  little  boy  stretched  his  chubby  arms 
through  the  fence  and  waved  them  entreat- 
ingly. 

Fido  was  convinced  now;  so  he  got  up, 
and  with  many  cordial  gestures  of  his  hospi 
table  tail,  trotted  down  the  steps  and  over 
the  lawn  to  the  corner  of  the  fence  where 
the  little  stranger  was. 

"Me  love  oo,"  said  the  little  stranger, 
patting  Fido's  honest  brown  back;  "me 
love  oo,  'ittle  goggie." 

Fido  knew  that,  for  there  were  caresses  in 
every  stroke  of  the  dimpled  hands.  Fido 
loved  the  little  boy,  too, — yes,  all  at  once 

201 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

he  loved  the  little  boy;  and  he  licked  the 
dimpled  hands,  and  gave  three  short,  quick 
barks,  and  wagged  his  tail  hysterically.  So 
then  and  there  began  the  friendship  of  Fido 
and  the  little  boy. 

Presently  Fido  crawled  under  the  fence 
into  the  next  yard,  and  then  the  little  boy 
sat  down  on  the  grass,  and  Fido  put  his 
fore-paws  in  the  little  boy's  lap  and  cocked 
up  his  ears  and  looked  up  into  the  little  boy's 
face,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  We  shall  be  great 
friends,  shall  we  not,  little  boy  ?  " 

"Me  love  oo,"  said  the  little  boy;  "me 
wan'  to  tiss  oo,  'ittle  goggie!  " 

And  the  little  boy  did  kiss  Fido, — yes, 
right  on  Fido's  cold  nose;  and  Fido  liked  to 
have  the  little  boy  kiss  him,  for  it  reminded 
him  of  another  little  boy  who  used  to  kiss 
him,  but  who  was  now  so  big  that  he  was 
almost  ashamed  to  play  with  Fido  any  more. 

"Is  oo  sit,  'ittle  goggie  ?"  asked  the  little 
boy,  opening  his  blue  eyes  to  their  utmost 
capacity  and  looking  very  piteous.  "  Oo 
nose  be  so  told,  oo  mus'  be  sit,  'ittle  gog 
gie!" 

But  no,  Fido  was  not  sick,  even  though 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

his  nose  was  cold.  Oh,  no;  he  romped  and 
played  all  that  morning  in  the  cool,  green 
grass  with  the  little  boy ;  and  the  red-headed 
woodpecker,  clinging  to  the  bark  on  the 
hickory-tree,  laughed  at  their  merry  antics 
till  her  sides  ached  and  her  beautiful  head 
turned  fairly  livid.  Then,  at  last,  the  little 
boy's  mamma  came  out  of  the  house  and 
told  him  he  had  played  long  enough;  and 
neither  the  red-headed  woodpecker  nor  Fido 
saw  him  again  that  day. 

But  the  next  morning  the  little  boy  tod 
dled  down  to  the  fence-corner,  bright  and 
early,  and  called,  "Goggie!  goggie!  gog- 
gie!"  so  loudly,  that  Fido  heard  him  in  the 
wood-shed,  where  he  was  holding  a  morn 
ing  chat  with  Mrs.  Tabby.  Fido  hastened 
to  answer  the  call;  the  way  he  spun  out  of 
the  wood-shed  and  down  the  gravel  walk 
and  around  the  corner  of  the  house  was  a 
marvel. 

"  Mamma  says  oo  dot  f 'eas,  'ittle  goggie," 
said  the  little  boy.  "  Has  oo  dot  f 'eas  ?  " 

Fido  looked  crestfallen,  for  could  Fido  have 
spoken  he  would  have  confessed  that  he  in 
deed  was  afflicted  with  fleas, —  not  with  very 
203 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

many  fleas,  but  just  enough  to  interrupt  his 
slumbers  and  his  meditations  at  the  most 
inopportune  moments.  And  the  little  boy's 
guileless  impeachment  set  Fido  to  feeling 
creepy-crawly  all  of  a  sudden,  and  without 
any  further  ado  Fido  turned  deftly  in  his 
tracks,  twisted  his  head  back  toward  his 
tail,  and  by  means  of  several  well-directed 
bites  and  plunges  gave  the  malicious  Be 
douins  thereabouts  located  timely  warning 
to  behave  themselves.  The  little  boy  thought 
this  performance  very  funny,  and  he  laughed 
heartily.  But  Fido  looked  crestfallen. 

Oh,  what  play  and  happiness  they  had 
that  day;  how  the  green  grass  kissed  their 
feet,  and  how  the  smell  of  clover  came  with 
the  springtime  breezes  from  the  meadow 
yonder !  The  red-headed  woodpecker  heard 
them  at  play,  and  she  clambered  out  of  the 
hollow  maple  and  dodged  hither  and  thither 
as  if  she,  too,  shared  their  merriment.  Yes, 
and  the  yellow  thistle-bird,  whose  nest  was 
in  the  blooming  lilac-bush,  came  and  perched 
in  the  pear-tree  and  sang  a  little  song  about 
the  dear  little  eggs  in  her  cunning  home. 
And  there  was  a  flower  in  the  fence-corner,— 
204 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

a  sweet,  modest  flower  that  no  human  eyes 
but  the  little  boy's  had  ever  seen, —  and  she 
sang  a  little  song,  too,  a  song  about  the  kind 
old  Mother  Earth  and  the  pretty  sunbeams, 
the  gentle  rain  and  the  droning  bees.  Why, 
the  little  boy  had  never  known  anything 
half  so  beautiful,  and  Fido, — he,  too,  was 
delighted  beyond  all  telling.  If  the  whole 
truth  must  be  told,  Fido  had  such  an  excit 
ing  and  bewildering  romp  that  day  that 
when  night  came,  and  he  lay  asleep  on  the 
kitchen  floor,  he  dreamed  he  was  tum 
bling  in  the  green  grass  with  the  little  boy, 
and  he  tossed  and  barked  and  whined  so  in 
his  sleep  that  the  hired  man  had  to  get  up 
in  the  night  and  put  him  out  of  doors. 

Down  in  the  pasture  at  the  end  of  the  lane 
lived  an  old  woodchuck.  Last  year  the  freshet 
had  driven  him  from  his  childhood's  home  in 
the  corn-field  by  the  brook,  and  now  he  re 
sided  in  a  snug  hole  in  the  pasture.  During 
their  rambles  one  day,  Fido  and  his  little  boy 
friend  had  come  to  the  pasture,  and  found 
the  old  woodchuck  sitting  upright  at  the 
entrance  to  his  hole. 

"Oh,  I  'm  not  going  to  hurt  you,  old  Mr. 
205 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

Woodchuck,"  said  Fido.    "  I  have  too  much 
respect  for  your  gray  hairs." 

' '  Thank  you, "  replied  the  woodchuck,  sar 
castically,  "but  I  'm  not  afraid  of  any  bench- 
legged  fyste  that  ever  walked.  It  was  only 
last  week  that  I  whipped  Deacon  Skinner's 
yellow  mastiff,  and  I  calc'late  I  can  trounce 
you,  you  ridiculous  little  brown  cur!  " 

The  little  boy  did  not  hear  this  badinage. 
When  he  saw  the  woodchuck  solemnly 
perched  at  the  entrance  to  his  hole  he  was 
simply  delighted. 

"  Oh,  see!  "  cried  the  little  boy,  stretching 
out  his  fat  arms  and  running  toward  the 
woodchuck, — "oh,  see, — 'nuzzer  'ittle  gog- 
gie !  Turn  here,  'ittle  goggie, — me  love  oo !  " 

But  the  old  woodchuck  was  a  shy  crea 
ture,  and  not  knowing  what  guile  the  little 
boy's  cordial  greeting  might  mask,  the  old 
woodchuck  discreetly  disappeared  in  his 
hole,  much  to  the  little  boy's  amazement. 

Nevertheless,  the  old  woodchuck,  the  little 
boy,  and  Fido  became  fast  friends  in  time, 
and  almost  every  day  they  visited  together 
in  the  pasture.  The  old  woodchuck  —  hoary 
and  scarred  veteran  that  he  was  —  had  won- 
206 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

derful  stories  to  tell, —  stories  of  marvellous 
adventures,  of  narrow  escapes,  of  battles  with 
cruel  dogs,  and  of  thrilling  experiences  that 
were  altogether  new  to  his  wondering  lis 
teners.  Meanwhile  the  red-headed  wood 
pecker's  eggs  in  the  hollow  maple  had 
hatched,  and  the  proud  mother  had  great 
tales  to  tell  of  her  baby  birds, —  of  how 
beautiful  and  knowing  they  were,  and  of 
what  good,  noble  birds  they  were  going  to 
be  when  they  grew  up.  The  yellow-bird, 
too,  had  four  fuzzy  little  babies  in  her  nest 
in  the  lilac-bush,  and  every  now  and  then 
she  came  to  sing  to  the  little  boy  and  Fido 
of  her  darlings.  Then,  when  the  little  boy 
and  Fido  were  tired  with  play,  they  would 
sit  in  the  rowen  near  the  fence-corner  and 
hear  the  flower  tell  a  story  the  dew  had 
brought  fresh  from  the  stars  the  night  be 
fore.  They  all  loved  each  other, — the  little 
boy,  Fido,  the  old  woodchuck,  the  red 
headed  woodpecker,  the  yellow-bird,  and 
the  flower, — yes,  all  through  the  days  of 
spring  and  all  through  the  summer  time 
they  loved  each  other  in  their  own  honest, 
sweet,  simple  way. 

207 


A   LITTLE  BOOK  OF 

But  one  morning  Fido  sat  on  the  front 
porch  and  wondered  why  the  little  boy  had 
not  come  to  the  fence-corner  and  called  to 
him.  The  sun  was  high,  the  men  had  been 
long  gone  to  the  harvest  fields,  and  the  heat 
of  the  early  autumn  day  had  driven  the  birds 
to  the  thickest  foliage  of  the  trees.  Fido  could 
not  understand  why  the  little  boy  did  not 
come;  he  felt,  oh!  so  lonesome,  and  he 
yearned  for  the  sound  of  a  little  voice  calling 
"Goggie,  goggie,  goggie." 

The  red-headed  woodpecker  could  not 
explain  it,  nor  could  the  yellow-bird.  Fido 
trotted  leisurely  down  to  the  fence-corner 
and  asked  the  flower  if  she  had  seen  the 
little  boy  that  morning.  But  no,  the  flower 
had  not  laid  eyes  on  the  little  boy,  and  she 
could  only  shake  her  head  doubtfully  when 
Fido  asked  her  what  it  all  meant.  At  last  in 
desperation  Fido  braced  himself  for  an  heroic 
solution  of  the  mystery,  and  as  loudly  as  ever 
he  could,  he  barked  three  times, —  in  the 
hope,  you  know,  that  the  little  boy  would 
hear  his  call  and  come.  But  the  little  boy 
did  not  come. 

Then  Fido  trotted  sadly  down  the  lane 
208 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

to  the  pasture  to  talk  with  the  old  wood- 
chuck  about  this  strange  thing.  The  old 
woodchuck  saw  him  coming  and  ambled 
out  to  meet  him. 

"  But  where  is  our  little  boy  ?  "  asked  the 
old  woodchuck. 

"I  do  not  know," said  Fido.  "I  waited 
for  him  and  called  to  him  again  and  again, 
but  he  never  came." 

Ah,  those  were  sorry  days  for  the  little 
boy's  friends,  and  sorriest  for  Fido.  Poor, 
honest  Fido,  how  lonesome  he  was  and 
how  he  moped  about!  How  each  sudden 
sound,  how  each  footfall,  startled  him! 
How  he  sat  all  those  days  upon  the  front 
door-stoop,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
fence-corner  and  his  rough  brown  ears 
cocked  up  as  if  he  expected  each  moment 
to  see  two  chubby  arms  stretched  out  to 
ward  him  and  to  hear  a  baby  voice  calling 
"Goggie,  goggie,  goggie." 

Once  only  they  saw  him, — Fido,  the 
flower,  and  the  others.  It  was  one  day 
when  Fido  had  called  louder  than  usual. 
They  saw  a  little  figure  in  a  night-dress 
come  to  an  upper  window  and  lean  his 
209 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

arms  out.  They  saw  it  was  the  little  boy, 
and,  oh!  how  pale  and  ill  he  looked.  But 
his  yellow  hair  was  as  glorious  as  ever,  and 
the  dimples  came  back  with  the  smile  that 
lighted  his  thin  little  face  when  he  saw  Fido; 
and  he  leaned  on  the  window  casement  and 
waved  his  baby  hands  feebly,  and  cried: 
"Goggie!  goggie!"  till  Fido  saw  the  little 
boy's  mother  come  and  take  him  from  the 
window. 

One  morning  Fido  came  to  the  fence- 
corner —  how  very  lonely  that  spot  seemed 
now  —  and  he  talked  with  the  flower  and 
the  woodpecker;  and  the  yellow-bird  came, 
too,  and  they  all  talked  of  the  little  boy. 
And  at  that  very  moment  the  old  wood- 
chuck  reared  his  hoary  head  by  the  hole  in 
the  pasture,  and  he  looked  this  way  and 
that  and  wondered  why  the  little  boy  never 
came  any  more. 

"Suppose,"  said  Fido  to  the  yellow-bird, 
— "suppose  you  fly  to  the  window  'way  up 
there  and  see  what  the  little  boy  is  doing. 
Sing  him  one  of  your  pretty  songs,  and  tell 
him  we  are  lonesome  without  him ;  that  we 
are  waiting  for  him  in  the  old  fence-corner." 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

Then  the  yellow-bird  did  as  Fido  asked, — 
she  flew  to  the  window  where  they  had 
once  seen  the  little  boy,  and  alighting  upon 
the  sill,  she  peered  into  the  room.  In  an 
other  moment  she  was  back  on  the  bush  at 
Fido's  side. 

"  He  is  asleep,"  said  the  yellow-bird. 

"Asleep!"  cried  Fido. 

"Yes,"  said  the  yellow-bird,  "he  is  fast 
asleep.  I  think  he  must  be  dreaming  a 
beautiful  dream,  for  I  could  see  a  smile  on 
his  face,  and  his  little  hands  were  folded  on 
his  bosom.  There  were  flowers  all  about 
him,  and  but  for  their  sweet  voices  the 
chamber  would  have  been  very  still." 

"Come,  let  us  wake  him,"  said  Fido; 
"let  us  all  call  to  him  at  once.  Then  per 
haps  he  will  hear  us  and  awaken  and  an 
swer;  perhaps  he  will  come." 

So  they  all  called  in  chorus, — Fido  and 
the  other  honest  friends.  They  called  so 
loudly  that  the  still  air  of  that  autumn 
morning  was  strangely  startled,  and  the  old 
woodchuck  in  the  pasture  'way  off  yonder 
heard  the  echoes  and  wondered. 

"Little    boy!    little   boy!"    they   called, 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

"why  are  you   sleeping?    Why  are  you 
sleeping,  little  boy?" 

Call  on,  dear  voices!  but  the  little  boy 
will  never  hear.  The  dimpled  hands  that 
caressed  you  are  indeed  folded  upon  his 
breast;  the  lips  that  kissed  your  honest  faces 
are  sealed;  the  baby  voice  that  sang  your 
playtime  songs  with  you  is  hushed,  and  all 
about  him  are  the  fragrance  and  the  beauty 
of  flowers.  Call  on,  O  honest  friends!  but 
he  shall  never  hear  your  calling;  for,  as  if 
he  were  aweary  of  the  love  and  play  and 
sunshine  that  were  all  he  knew  of  earth, 
our  darling  is  asleep  forever, 

1885. 


212 


THE   OLD   MAN 


I  CALLED  him  the  Old  Man,  but  he  wuz  n't 
an  old  man;  he  wuz  a  little  boy  —  our 
fust  one;  'nd  his  gran'ma,  who  'd  had  a  heap 
of  experience  in  sich  matters,  allowed  that 
he  wuz  for  looks  as  likely  a  child  as  she  'd 
ever  clapped  eyes  on.  Bein'  our  fust,  we 
sot  our  hearts  on  him,  and  Lizzie  named 
him  Willie,  for  that  wuz  the  name  she  liked 
best,  havin'  had  a  brother  Willyum  killed  in 
the  war.  But  I  never  called  him  anything 
but  the  Old  Man,  and  that  name  seemed  to  fit 
him,  for  he  wuz  one  of  your  sollum  babies, 
—  alwuz  thinkin'  'nd  thinkin'  'nd  thinkin', 
like  he  wuz  a  jedge,  and  when  he  laffed  it 
wuz  n't  like  other  children's  laffs,  it  wuz  so 
sad-like. 

Lizzie  'nd  I  made  it  up  between  us  that 
when  the  Old  Man  growed  up  we  'd  send  him 
215 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

to  collige  'nd  give  him  a  lib'ril  edication,  no 
matter  though  we  had  to  sell  the  farm  to  do 
it.  But  we  never  c'u'd  exactly  agree  as  to 
what  we  was  goin'  to  make  of  him ;  Lizzie 
havin'  her  heart  sot  on  his  bein'  a  preacher 
like  his  gran'pa  Baker,  and  I  wantin'  him  to 
be  a  lawyer  'nd  git  rich  out'n  the  corpora 
tions,  like  his  uncle  Wilson  Barlow.  So  we 
never  come  to  no  definite  conclusion  as  to 
what  the  Old  Man  wuz  goin'  to  be  bime  by; 
but  while  we  wuz  thinkin'  'nd  debatin'  the 
Old  Man  kep'  growin'  'nd  growin',  and  all 
the  time  he  wuz  as  serious  'nd  sollum  as  a 
jedge. 

Lizzie  got  jest  wrapped  up  in  that  boy ;  toted 
him  round  ever'where  'nd  never  let  on  like 
it  made  her  tired, —  powerful  big  'nd  hearty 
child  too,  but  heft  war  n't  nothin'  'longside 
of  Lizzie's  love  for  the  Old  Man.  When  he 
caught  the  measles  from  Sairy  Baxter's  baby 
Lizzie  sot  up  day  'nd  night  till  he  wuz  well, 
holdin'  his  hands  'nd  singin'  songs  to  him, 
'nd  cryin'  herse'f  almost  to  death  because 
she  dassent  give  him  cold  water  to  drink 
when  he  called  f  r  it.  As  for  me,  my  heart 
wuz  wrapped  up  in  the  Old  Man,  too,  but, 
216 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

bein'  a  man,  it  wuz  n't  for  me  to  show  it  like 
Lizzie,  bein'  a  woman;  and  now  that  the 
Old  Man  is  —  wall,  now  that  he  has  gone, 
it  would  n't  do  to  let  on  how  much  I  sot  by 
him,  for  that  would  make  Lizzie  feel  all  the 
wuss. 

Sometimes,  when  I  think  of  it,  it  makes 
me  sorry  that  I  did  n't  show  the  Old  Man 
some  way  how  much  I  wuz  wrapped  up  in 
him.  Used  to  hold  him  in  my  lap  'nd  make 
faces  for  him  'nd  alder  whistles  'nd  things; 
sometimes  I  'd  kiss  him  on  his  rosy  cheek, 
when  nobody  wuz  lookin';  oncet  I  tried  to 
sing  him  a  song,  but  it  made  him  cry,  'nd  I 
never  tried  my  hand  at  singin'  again.  But, 
somehow,  the  Old  Man  did  n't  take  to  me 
like  he  took  to  his  mother:  would  climb 
down  outern  my  lap  to  git  where  Lizzie 
wuz;  would  hang  on  to  her  gownd,  no 
matter  what  she  wuz  doin', —  whether  she 
wuz  makin'  bread,  or  sewin',  or  puttin'  up 
pickles,  it  wuz  alwuz  the  same  to  the  Old 
Man ;  he  wuz  n't  happy  unless  he  wuz  right 
there,  clost  beside  his  mother. 

'Most  all  boys,  as  I  've  heern  tell,  is  proud 
to  be  round  with  their  father,  doin1  what  he 
217 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

does  'nd  wearin'  the  kind  of  clothes  be 
wears.  But  the  Old  Man  wuz  diff' rent;  he 
allowed  that  his  mother  was  his  best  friend, 
'nd  the  way  he  stuck  to  her — wall,  it  has 
alwuz  been  a  great  comfort  to  Lizzie  to 
recollect  it. 

The  Old  Man  had  a  kind  of  confidin'  way 
with  his  mother.  Every  oncet  in  a  while, 
when  he  'd  be  playin'  by  hisself  in  the  front 
room,  he  'd  call  out,  "Mudder,  mudder;" 
and  no  matter  where  Lizzie  wuz,  —  in  the 
kitchen,  or  in  the  wood-shed,  or  in  the  yard, 
she'd  answer:  "What  is  it,  darlin'?"  Then 
the  Old  Man  'u'd  say:  "Turn  here,  mudder, 
I  wanter  tell  you  sumfin'."  Never  could 
find  out  what  the  Old  Man  wanted  to  tell 
Lizzie;  like  's  not  he  did  n't  wanter  tell  her 
nothin';  maybe  he  wuz  lonesome  'nd  jest 
wanted  to  feel  that  Lizzie  wuz  round.  But 
that  did  n't  make  no  difference;  it  wuz  all 
the  same  to  Lizzie.  No  matter  where  she 
wuz  or  what  she  wuz  a-doin',  jest  as  soon 
as  the  Old  Man  told  her  he  wanted  to  tell 
her  somethin'  she  dropped  ever'thing  else 
'nd  went  straight  to  him.  Then  the  Old 
Man  would  laff  one  of  his  sollum,  sad-like 
218 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

laffs,  'nd  put  his  arms  round  Lizzie's  neck 
'nd  whisper  —  or  pertend  to  whisper  — 
somethin'  in  her  ear,  'nd  Lizzie  would  laff 
'nd  say,  "Oh,  what  a  nice  secret  we  have 
atween  us!"  and  then  she  would  kiss  the 
Old  Man  'nd  go  back  to  her  work. 

Time  changes  all  things, — all  things  but 
memory,  nothin'  can  change  that.  Seems 
like  it  was  only  yesterday  or  the  day  before 
that  I  heern  the  Old  Man  callin',  "  Mudder, 
mudder,  I  wanter  tell  you  sumfin',"  and  that 
I  seen  him  put  his  arms  around  her  neck  'nd 
whisper  softly  to  her. 

It  had  been  an  open  winter,  'nd  there  wuz 
fever  all  around  us.  The  Baxters  lost  their 
little  girl,  and  Homer  Thompson's  children 
had  all  been  taken  down.  Ev'ry  night  'nd 
mornin'  we  prayed  God  to  save  our  darlin'; 
but  one  evenin'  when  I  come  up  from  the 
wood-lot,  the  Old  Man  wuz  restless  'nd  his 
face  wuz  hot  'nd  he  talked  in  his  sleep. 
Maybe  you  've  been  through  it  yourself,— 
maybe  you  've  tended  a  child  that 's  down 
with  the  fever;  if  so,  maybe  you  know 
what  we  went  through,  Lizzie  'nd  me.  The 
doctor  shook  his  head  one  night  when  he 
219 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

come  to  see  the  Old  Man;  we  knew  what 
that  meant.  I  went  out-doors, — I  could  n't 
stand  it  in  the  room  there,  with  the  Old  Man 
seein'  'nd  talkin'  about  things  that  the  fever 
made  him  see.  I  wuz  too  big  a  coward  to 
stay  'nd  help  his  mother  to  bear  up;  so  I 
went  out-doors  'nd  brung  in  wood, — brung 
in  wood  enough  to  last  all  spring, —  and 
then  I  sat  down  alone  by  the  kitchen  fire 
'nd  heard  the  clock  tick  'nd  watched  the 
shadders  flicker  through  the  room. 

I  remember  Lizzie's  comin'  to  me  and  say- 
in' :  "He  's  breathin'  strange-like,  'nd  his 
little  feet  is  cold  as  ice."  Then  I  went  into 
the  front  chamber  where  he  lay.  The  day 
wuz  breakin';  the  cattle  wuz  lowin'  outside; 
a  beam  of  light  come  through  the  winder 
and  fell  on  the  Old  Man's  face, — perhaps  it 
wuz  the  summons  for  which  he  waited  and 
which  shall  some  time  come  to  me  'nd  you. 
Leastwise  the  Old  Man  roused  from  his  sleep 
'nd  opened  up  his  big  blue  eyes.  It  wuz  n't 
me  he  wanted  to  see. 

"Mudder!  mudder!"  cried  the  Old  Man, 
but  his  voice  war  n't  strong  'nd  clear  like  it 
used  to  be.  "Mudder,  where  beyou,  mudder?" 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

Then,  breshin'  by  me,  Lizzie  caught  the 
Old  Man  up  'nd  held  him  in  her  arms,  like 
she  had  done  a  thousand  times  before. 

"What  is  it,  darlin' ?  Here  I  be,"  says 
Lizzie. 

"  Turn  here,"  says  the  Old  Man, —  "  turn 
here;  I  wanter  tell  you  sumfin'." 

The  Old  Man  went  to  reach  his  arms 
around  her  neck  'nd  whisper  in  her  ear. 
But  his  arms  fell  limp  and  helpless-like,  'nd 
the  Old  Man's  curly  head  drooped  on  his 
mother's  breast. 

1889. 


* 

ffl,  tfjc  Hofcii 


BILL,  THE   LOKIL  EDITOR 


BILL  wuz  alluz  fond  uv  children  'nd  birds 
'nd  flowers.  Ain't  it  kind  o'  curious 
how  sometimes  we  find  a  great,  big,  awk 
ward  man  who  loves  sech  things  ?  Bill  had 
the  biggest  feet  in  the  township,  but  I  '11  bet 
my  wallet  that  he  never  trod  on  a  violet  in 
all  his  life.  Bill  never  took  no  slack  from 
enny  man  that  wuz  sober,  but  the  children 
made  him  play  with  'em,  and  he  'd  set  for 
hours  a-watchin'  the  yaller-hammer  buildin' 
her  nest  in  the  old  cottonwood. 

Now  I  ain't  defendin'  Bill;  I  'm  jest  tellin' 
the  truth  about  him.  Nothink  I  kin  say  one 
way  or  t'other  is  goin'  to  make  enny  differ 
ence  now;  Bill  's  dead  'nd  buried,  'nd  the 
folks  is  discussin'  him  'nd  wond'rin'  whether 
his  immortal  soul  is  all  right.  Sometimes  I 
bev  worried  'bout  Bill,  but  I  don't  worry 
225 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

'bout  him  no  more.  Uv  course  Bill  had  his 
faults, —  I  never  liked  that  drinkin'  business 
uv  his'n,  yet  I  allow  that  Bill  got  more  good 
out'n  likker,  and  likkergot  more  good  out'n 
Bill,  than  I  ever  see  before  or  sence.  It 
war  n't  when  the  likker  wuz  in  Bill  that  Bill 
wuz  at  his  best,  but  when  he  hed  been 
on  to  one  uv  his  bats  'nd  had  drunk  himself 
sick  'nd  wuz  comin'  out  uv  the  other  end 
of  the  bat,  then  Bill  wuz  one  uv  the  meek 
est  'nd  properest  critters  you  ever  seen.  An' 
po'try  ?  Some  uv  the  most  beautiful  po'try 
I  ever  read  wuz  writ  by  Bill  when  he  wuz 
recoverin'  himself  out'n  one  uv  them  bats. 
Seemed  like  it  kind  uv  exalted  an'  purified 
Bill's  nachur  to  git  drunk  an'  git  over  it. 
Bill  c'u'd  drink  more  likker  'nd  be  sorrier  for 
it  than  any  other  man  in  seven  States.  There 
never  wuz  a  more  penitent  feller  than  he 
wuz  when  he  wuz  soberin'.  The  trubble 
with  Bill  seemed  to  be  that  his  conscience 
did  n't  come  on  watch  quite  of 'n  enuff. 

It  '11  be  ten  years  come  nex'  spring  sence 

Bill  showed  up  here.     I  don't  know  whar 

he  come  from;  seemed  like  he  did  n't  want 

to  talk  about  his  past.     I  allers  suspicioned 

226 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

that  he  had  seen  trubble  —  maybe,  sorrer. 
I  reecollect  that  one  time  he  got  a  telegraph, 
—  Mr.  Ivins  told  me  'bout  it  afterwards,— 
and  when  he  read  it  he  put  his  hands  up  to 
his  face  'nd  groaned,  like.  That  day  he  got 
full  uv  likker  'nd  he  kep'  full  uv  likker  for  a 
week;  but  when  he  come  round  all  right  he 
wrote  a  pome  for  the  paper,  'nd  the  name 
uv  the  pome  wuz  "Mary,"  but  whether 
Mary  wuz  his  sister  or  his  wife  or  an  old 
sweetheart  uv  his'n  I  never  knew.  But  it 
looked  from  the  pome  like  she  wuz  dead  'nd 
that  he  loved  her. 

Bill  wuz  the  best  lokil  the  paper  ever  had. 
He  did  n't  hustle  around  much,  but  he  had 
a  kind  er  pleasin'  way  uv  dishin'  things  up. 
He  c'u'd  be  mighty  comical  when  he  sot  out 
to  be,  but  his  best  holt  was  serious  pieces. 
Nobody  could  beat  Bill  writing  obituaries. 
When  old  Mose  Holbrook  wuz  dyin'  the 
minister  sez  to  him:  "Mr.  Holbrook,  you 
seem  to  be  sorry  that  you  're  passin'  away 
to  a  better  land  ?  " 

"Wall,  no;  not  exactly  that,"  sez  Mose, 
"  but  to  be  frank  with  you,  I  bev  jest  one  re 
gret  in  connection  with  this  affair." 
227 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

"What 's  that  ?  "  asked  the  minister. 

"I  can't  help  feelin'  sorry,"  sez  Mose, 
"that  I  ain't  goin'  to  hev  the  pleasure  uv 
readin'  what  Bill  Newton  sez  about  me  in 
the  paper.  I  know  it  '11  be  sumthin'  un 
common  fine;  I  loant  him  two  dollars  a  year 
ago  last  fall." 

The  Higginses  lost  a  darned  good  friend 
when  Bill  died.  Bill  wrote  a  pome  'bout 
their  old  dog  Towze  when  he  wuz  run  over 
by  Watkins's  hay-wagon  seven  years  ago. 
I  '11  bet  that  pome  is  in  every  scrap-book  in 
the  county.  You  could  n't  read  that  pome 
without  cryin', — why,  that  pome  w'u'd  hev 
brought  a  dew  out  on  the  desert  uv  Sary. 
Old  Tim  Hubbard,  the  meanest  man  in  the 
State,  borrered  a  paper  to  read  the  pome, 
and  he  wuz  so  'fected  by  it  that  he  never 
borrered  anuther  paper  as  long  as  he  lived. 
I  don't  more  'n  half  reckon,  though,  that  the 
Higginses  appreciated  what  Bill  had  done 
for  'em.  I  never  heerd  uv  their  givin'  him 
anythink  more  'n  a  basket  uv  greenin'  ap 
ples,  and  Bill  wrote  a  piece  'bout  the  apples 
nex'  day. 

But  Bill  wuz  at  his  best  when  he  wrote 
228 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

things  about  the  children, —  about  the  little 
ones  that  died,  I  mean.  Seemed  like  Bill 
had  a  way  of  his  own  of  sayin'  things  that 
wuz  beautiful  'nd  tender;  he  said  he  loved 
the  children  because  they  wuz  innocent,  and 
I  reckon  —  yes,  I  know  he  did,  for  the  pomes 
he  writ  about  'em  showed  he  did. 

When  our  little  Alice  died  I  started  out  for 
Mr.  Miller's;  he  wuz  the  undertaker.  The 
night  wuz  powerful  dark,  'nd  it  wuz  all  the 
darker  to  me,  because  seemed  like  all  the 
light  hed  gone  out  in  my  life.  Down  near 
the  bridge  I  met  Bill;  he  weaved  round  in 
the  road,  for  he  wuz  in  likker. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Baker,"  sez  he,  "wharbeyou 
goin'  this  time  o'  night?" 

"  Bill,"  sez  I,  "I  'm  goin'  on  the  saddest 
errand  uv  my  life." 

"  What  d'  ye  mean  ?"  sez  he,  comin'  up 
to  me  as  straight  as  he  c'u'd. 

"Why,  Bill,"  sez  1,  "our  little  girl  — my 
little  girl  —  Allie,  you  know  —  she  's  dead." 

I  hoarsed  up  so  I  could  n't  say  much  more. 

And  Bill  did  n't  say  nothink  at  all;  he  jest 

reached  me  his  hand,  and  he  took  my  hand 

and  seemed  like  in  that  grasp  his  heart  spoke 

229 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

many  words  of  comfort  to  mine.  And  nex' 
day  he  had  a  piece  in  the  paper  about  our 
little  girl;  we  cut  it  out  and  put  it  in  the  big 
Bible  in  the  front  room.  Sometimes  when 
we  get  to  fussin',  Martha  goes  'nd  gets  that 
bit  of  paper 'nd  reads  it  to  me;  then  us  two 
kind  uv  cry  to  ourselves,  'nd  we  make  it  up 
between  us  for  the  dead  child's  sake. 

Well,  you  kin  see  how  it  wuz  that  so 
many  uv  us  liked  Bill;  he  had  soothed  our 
hearts, —  there  's  nothin'  like  sympathy  after 
all.  Bill's  po'try  hed  heart  in  it;  it  did  n't 
surprise  you  or  scare  you;  it  jest  got  down 
in  under  your  vest,  'nd  before  you  knew  it 
you  wuz  all  choked  up.  I  know  all  about 
your  fashionable  po'try  and  your  famous 
potes, —  Martha  took  Godey's  for  a  year. 
Folks  that  live  in  the  city  can't  write  po'try, 
—  not  the  real,  genuine  article.  To  write 
po'try,  as  I  figure  it,  the  heart  must  have 
somethin'  to  feed  on;  you  can't  get  that 
somethin'  whar  there  ain't  trees  'nd  grass 
'nd  birds  'nd  flowers.  Bill  loved  these 
things,  and  he  fed  his  heart  on  'em,  and 
that 's  why  his  po'try  wuz  so  much  better 
than  anybody  else's. 

230 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

I  ain't  worryin'  much  about  Bill  now;  I 
take  it  that  everythink  is  for  the  best.  When 
they  told  me  that  Bill  died  in  a  drunken  fit  I 
felt  that  his  end  oughter  have  come  some 
other  way, —  he  wuz  too  good  a  man  for 
that.  But  maybe,  after  all,  it  was  ordered 
for  the  best.  Jist  imagine  Bill  a-standin'  up 
for  jedgment;  jist  imagine  that  poor,  sor 
rowful,  shiverin'  critter  waitin'  for  his  turn 
to  come.  Pictur',  if  you  can,  how  full  of 
penitence  he  is,  'nd  how  full  uv  po'try  'nd 
gentleness  'nd  misery.  The  Lord  ain't  a-goin' 
to  be  too  hard  on  that  poor  wretch.  Of 
course  we  can't  comprehend  Divine  mercy; 
we  only  know  that  it  is  full  of  compas 
sion, —  a  compassion  infinitely  tenderer  and 
sweeter  than  ours.  And  the  more  I  think 
on  't,  the  more  I  reckon  that  Bill  will  plead 
to  win  that  mercy,  for,  like  as  not,  the  little 
ones  —  my  Allie  with  the  rest  —  will  run  to 
him  when  they  see  him  in  his  trubble  and 
will  hold  his  tremblin'  hands  'nd  twine  their 
arms  about  him,  and  plead,  with  him,  for 
compassion. 

You  've  seen  an  old  sycamore  that  the 
lightnin'  has  struck;  the  ivy  has  reached  up 
231 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

its  vines  'nd  spread  'em  all  around  it  'nd 
over  it,  coverin'  its  scars  'nd  splintered 
branches  with  a  velvet  green  'nd  fillin'  the 
air  with  fragrance.  You  've  seen  this  thing 
and  you  know  that  it  is  beautiful. 

That  's  Bill,  perhaps,  as  he  stands  up  f'r 
jedgment, — a  miserable,  tremblin',  'nd  un 
worthy  thing,  perhaps,  but  twined  about, 
all  over,  with  singin'  and  pleadin'  little  chil 
dren —  and  that  is  pleasin'  in  God's  sight,  I 
know. 

What  would  you  —  what  would  / — say, 
if  we  wuz  settin'  in  jedgment  then  ? 

Why,  we  'd  jest  kind  uv  bresh  the  moist 
ure  from  our  eyes  'nd  say :  "Mister  recordin' 
angel,  you  may  nolly  pros  this  case  'nd  per- 
seed  with  the  docket." 

1888. 


€|je  Hittfe  gafler  S&abp 


THE   LITTLE   YALLER  BABY 


IHEV  allus  bed  a  good  opinion  uv  the 
wimmin  folks.  I  don't  look  at  'em  as 
some  people  do;  uv  course  they  're  a  ne 
cessity —  just  as  men  are.  Uv  course  if 
there  war  n't  no  wimmin  folks  there  would 
n't  be  no  men  folks  —  leastwise  that 's  what 
the  medikil  books  say.  But  I  never  wuz 
much  on  discussin'  humin  economy;  what 
I  hev  allus  thought  'nd  said  wuz  that  wim 
min  folks  wuz  a  kind  uv  luxury,  'nd  the 
best  kind,  too.  Maybe  it  's  because  I  hain't 
hed  much  to  do  with  'em  that  I  'm  sot  on 
'em.  Never  did  get  real  well  acquainted  with 
more  'n  three  or  four  uv  'em  in  all  my  life; 
seemed  like  it  wuz  meant  that  I  should  n't 
hev  'em  round  me  as  most  men  hev.  Mo 
ther  died  when  I  wuz  a  little  tyke,  an'  Aunt 
Mary  raised  me  till  I  wuz  big  enuff  to  make 

235 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

my  own  livin'.  Down  here  in  the  South 
west,  you  see,  most  uv  the  girls  is  boys; 
there  ain't  none  uv  them  civilizin'  influences 
folks  talk  uv, — nothin'  but  flowers  'nd  birds 
'nd  such  things  as  poetry  tells  about.  So  I 
kind  uv  growed  up  with  the  curi's  notion 
that  wimmin  folks  wuz  too  good  for  our 
part  uv  the  country,  'nd  I  hev  n't  quite  got 
that  notion  out'n  my  head  yet. 

One  time — wall,  I  reckon  't  wuz  about 
four  years  ago  —  I  got  a  letter  frum  ol'  Col. 
Sibley  to  come  up  to  Saint  Louey  'nd  con 
sult  with  him  'bout  some  stock  int'rests  we 
hed  together.  Railroad  travellin'  wuz  no 
new  thing  to  me.  I  hed  been  prutty  pros 
perous, —  hed  got  past  hevin'  to  ride  in  a 
caboose  'nd  git  out  at  every  stop  to  punch 
up  the  steers.  Hed  money  in  the  Hoost'n 
bank  'nd  used  to  go  to  Tchicargo  oncet  a 
year;  hed  met  Fill  Armer  'nd  shook  hands 
with  him,  'nd  oncet  the  city  papers  hed  a 
colume  article  about  my  bein'  a  millionnaire; 
uv  course  't  war  n't  so,  but  a  feller  kind  uv 
likes  that  sort  uv  thing,  you  know. 

The  mornin'  after  I  got  that  letter  from 
Col.  Sibley  I  started  for  Saint  Louey.  I 
236 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

took  a  bunk  in  the  Pullman  car,  like  I  bed 
been  doin'  for  six  years  past;  'nd  I  reckon 
the  other  folks  must  hev  thought  I  wuz  a 
heap  uv  a  man,  for  every  haff-hour  I  give 
the  nigger  ha'f  a  dollar  to  bresh  me  off. 
The  car  wuz  full  uv  people, — rich  people, 
too,  I  reckon,  for  they  wore  good  clo'es  'nd 
criticized  the  scenery.  Jest  across  frum  me 
there  wuz  a  lady  with  a  big,  fat  baby, — 
the  pruttiest  woman  I  hed  seen  in  a  month 
uv  Sundays ;  and  the  baby !  why,  doggone 
my  skin,  when  I  wuz  n't  payin'  money  to 
the  nigger,  darned  if  I  did  n't  set  there 
watchin'  the  big,  fat  little  cuss,  like  he  wuz 
the  only  baby  I  ever  seen.  I  ain't  much  of 
a  hand  at  babies,  'cause  I  hain't  seen  many 
uv  'em,  'nd  when  it  comes  to  handlin'  'em 
—  why,  that  would  break  me  all  up,  'nd 
like  's  not  't  would  break  the  baby  all  up 
too.  But  it  has  allus  been  my  notion  that 
nex'  to  the  wimmin  folks  babies  wuz  jest 
about  the  nicest  things  on  earth.  So  the 
more  I  looked  at  that  big,  fat  little  baby 
settin'  in  its  mother's  lap  'cross  the  way, 
the  more  I  wanted  to  look;  seemed  like  I 
wuz  hoodooed  by  the  little  tyke;  'nd  the 
237 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

first  thing  I  knew  there  wuz  water  in  my 
eyes;  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  it  allus 
makes  me  kind  ur  slop  over  to  set  'nd  watch 
a  baby  cooin'  'nd  playin'  in  its  mother's  lap. 

"  Look  a'  hyar,  Sam,"  says  I  to  the  nigger, 
"come  hyar  'nd  bresh  me  off  ag'in!  Why 
ain't  you  'tendin'  to  bizness?" 

But  it  did  n't  do  no  good  't  all;  pertendin' 
to  be  cross  with  the  nigger  might  fool  the 
other  folks  in  the  car,  but  it  did  n't  fool  me. 
I  wuz  dead  stuck  on  that  baby  —  gol  durn 
his  pictur'!  And  there  the  little  tyke  set 
in  its  mother's  lap,  doublin'  up  its  fists  'nd 
tryin'  to  swaller  'em,  'nd  talkin'  like  to  its 
mother  in  a  lingo  I  could  n't  understan', 
but  which  the  mother  could,  for  she  talked 
back  to  the  baby  in  a  soothin'  lingo  which 
I  could  n't  understand,  but  which  I  liked  to 
hear,  'nd  she  kissed  the  baby  'nd  stroked  its 
hair  'nd  petted  it  like  wimmin  do. 

It  made  me  mad  to  hear  them  other  folks 
in  the  car  criticizin'  the  scenery  'nd  things. 
A  man  's  in  mighty  poor  bizness,  anyhow, 
to  be  lookin'  at  scenery  when  there  's  a 
woman  in  sight, —  a  woman  and  a  baby! 

Prutty  soon  —  oh,  maybe  in  a'  hour  or 
238 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

two  —  the  baby  began  to  fret  'nd  worrit. 
Seemed  to  me  like  the  little  critter  wuz 
hungry.  Knowin'  that  there  wuz  no  eat- 
in'-house  this  side  of  Bowieville,  I  jest  called 
the  train-boy,  'nd  says  I  to  him:  "  Hev  you 
got  any  victuals  that  will  do  for  a  baby  ?  " 

"  How  is  oranges  'nd  bananas  ?  "  says  he. 

"That  ought  to  do,"  says  I.  "Jist  do  up 
a  dozen  uv  your  best  oranges  'nd  a  dozen  uv 
your  best  bananas  'nd  take  'em  over  to  that 
baby  with  my  complerments." 

But  before  he  could  do  it,  the  lady  hed 
laid  the  baby  on  one  uv  her  arms  'nd  hed 
spread  a  shawl  over  its  head  'nd  over  her 
shoulder,  'nd  all  uv  a  suddint  the  baby  quit 
worritin'  and  seemed  like  he  hed  gone  to 
sleep. 

When  we  got  to  York  Crossin'  I  looked 
out'n  the  winder  'nd  seen  some  men  carry- 
in'  a  long  pine  box  up  towards  the  baggage- 
car.  Seein'  their  hats  off,  I  knew  there  wuz 
a  dead  body  in  the  box,  'nd  I  could  n't  help 
feelin'  sorry  for  the  poor  creetur  that  hed 
died  in  that  lonely  place  uv  York  Crossin'; 
but  I  mought  hev  felt  a  heap  sorrier  for  the 
creeters  that  hed  to  live  there,  for  I  '11  allow 
239 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

that  York  Crossin'  is  a  leetle  the  durnedest 
lonesomest  place  I  ever  seen. 

Well,  just  afore  the  train  started  ag'in,  who 
should  come  into  the  car  but  Bill  Woodson, 
and  he  wuz  lookin"  powerful  tough.  Bill 
herded  cattle  for  me  three  winters,  but  hed 
moved  away  when  he  married  one  uv  the 
waiter-girls  at  Spooner's  Hotel  at  Hoost'n. 

"Hello,  Bill,"  says  I;  "what  air  you  tot- 
in'  so  kind  uv  keerful-like  in  your  arms 
there  ?  " 

"Why,  I  've  got  the  baby,"  says  he;  'nd 
as  he  said  it  the  tears  come  up  into  his 
eyes. 

"  Your  own  baby,  Bill  ?  "  says  I. 

"Yes,"  says  he.  "Nellie  took  sick  uv 
the  janders  a  fortnight  ago,  'nd  —  'nd  she 
died,  'nd  I  'm  takin'  her  body  up  to  Texar- 
kany  to  bury.  She  lived  there,  you  know, 
'nd  I  'm  goin'  to  leave  the  baby  there  with 
its  gran'ma." 

Poor  Bill!  it  wuz  his  wife  that  the  men 
were  carryin'  in  that  pine  box  to  the  bag 
gage-car. 

"  Likely-lookin'  baby,  Bill,"  says  I,  cheer 
ful  like.  "  Perfect  pictur'  uv  its  mother;  kind 
240 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

uv  favors  you  round  the  lower  part  uv  the 
face,  tho'." 

I  said  this  to  make  Bill  feel  happier.  If 
I  'd  told  the  truth,  I  'd  've  said  the  baby  wuz 
a  sickly,  yaller-lookin'  little  thing,  for  so  it 
wuz;  looked  haff-starved,  too.  Could  n't 
help  comparin'  it  with  that  big,  fat  baby  in 
its  mother's  arms  over  the  way. 

"  Bill."  says  I,  "  here  's  a  ten-dollar  note 
for  the  baby,  'nd  God  bless  you!  " 

"Thank  ye,  Mr.  Goodhue,"  says  he,  'nd 
he  choked  all  up  as  he  moved  off  with  that 
yaller  little  baby  in  his  arms.  It  war  n't  very 
fur  up  the  road  he  wuz  goin',  'nd  he  found 
a  seat  in  one  uv  the  front  cars. 

But  along  about  an  hour  after  that  back 
come  Bill,  moseyin'  through  the  car  like  he 
wuz  huntin'  for  somebody.  Seemed  like 
he  wuz  in  trubble  and  wuz  huntin'  for  a 
friend. 

' '  Anything  I  kin  do  for  you,  Bill  ?  "  says  I, 
but  he  did  n't  make  no  answer.  All  uv  a 
suddint  he  sot  his  eyes  on  the  prutty  lady 
that  had  the  fat  baby  sleepin'  in  her  arms, 
'nd  he  made  a  break  for  her  like  he  wuz 
crazy.  He  took  off  his  hat  'nd  bent  down 
241 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

over  her  'nd  said  somethin'  none  uv  the  rest 
uv  us  could  hear.  The  lady  kind  uv  started 
like  she  wuz  frightened,  'nd  then  she  looked 
up  at  Bill  'nd  looked  him  right  square  in  the 
countenance.  She  saw  a  tall,  ganglin', 
awkward  man,  with  long  yaller  hair  'nd 
frowzy  beard,  'nd  she  saw  that  he  wuz 
tremblin'  'nd  hed  tears  in  his  eyes.  She 
looked  down  at  the  fat  baby  in  her  arms, 
'nd  then  she  looked  out'n  the  winder  at  the 
great  stretch  uv  prairie  land,  'nd  seemed 
like  she  wuz  lookin'  off  further  'n  the  rest 
uv  us  could  see.  Then  at  last  she  turnt 
around  'nd  said,  "Yes,"  to  Bill,  'nd  Bill 
went  off  into  the  front  car  ag'in. 

None  uv  the  rest  uv  us  knew  what  all 
this  meant,  but  in  a  minnit  Bill  come  back 
with  his  little  yaller  baby  in  his  arms,  'nd 
you  never  heerd  a  baby  squall  'nd  carry  on 
like  that  baby  wuz  squallin'  'nd  carryin'  on. 
Fact  is,  the  little  yaller  baby  wuz  hungry, 
hungrier  'n  a  wolf,  'nd  there  wuz  its  mother 
dead  in  the  car  up  ahead  'nd  its  gran'ma  a 
good  piece  up  the  road.  What  did  the  lady 
over  the  way  do  but  lay  her  own  sleepin' 
baby  down  on  the  seat  beside  her  'nd  take 
242 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

Bill's  little  yaller  baby  'nd  hold  it  on  one 
arm  'nd  cover  up  its  head  'nd  her  shoulder 
with  a  shawl,  jist  like  she  had  done  with 
the  fat  baby  not  long  afore.  Bill  never 
looked  at  her;  he  took  off  his  hat  and  held 
it  in  his  hand,  'nd  turnt  around  'nd  stood 
guard  over  that  mother,  'nd  I  reckon  that 
ef  any  man  hed  darst  to  look  that  way  jist 
then  Bill  would  Ve  cut  his  heart  out. 

The  little  yaller  baby  did  n't  cry  very  long. 
Seemed  like  it  knowed  there  wuz  a  mother 
holdin'  it, —  not  its  own  mother,  but  a 
woman  whose  life  hed  been  hallowed  by 
God's  blessin'  with  the  love  'nd  the  purity 
'nd  the  sanctity  uv  motherhood. 

Why,  I  would  n't  hev  swapped  that  sight 
uv  Bill  an'  them  two  babies  'nd  that  sweet 
woman  for  all  the  cattle  in  Texas!  It  jest 
made  me  know  that  what  I  'd  allus  thought 
uv  wimmin  was  gospel  truth.  God  bless 
that  lady!  I  say,  wherever  she  is  to-day,  'nd 
God  bless  all  wimmin  folks,  for  they  're  all 
alike  in  their  unselfishness  'nd  gentleness 
'nd  love! 

Bill  said,  "God  bless  ye!"  too,  when  she 
handed  him  back  his  poor  little  yaller  baby. 
243 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

The  little  creeter  wuz  fast  asleep,  'nd  Bill 
darsent  speak  very  loud  for  fear  he  'd  wake 
it  up.  But  his  heart  wuz  'way  up  in  his 
mouth  when  he  says  "God  bless  ye!"  to 
that  dear  lady;  'nd  then  he  added,  like  he 
wanted  to  let  her  know  that  he  meant  to 
pay  her  back  when  he  could:  "I  '11  do  the 
same  for  you  some  time,  marm,  if  I  kin." 

1888. 


244 


Cfjc  Cpdopcctrp 


THE  CYCLOPEEDY 


HAVIN'  lived  next  door  to  the  Hobart 
place  f ' r  goin'  on  thirty  years,  I  calc'- 
late  that  I  know  jest  about  ez  much  about 
the  case  ez  anybody  else  now  on  airth,  ex- 
ceptin'  perhaps  it 's  ol' Jedge  Baker,  and  he  's 
so  plaguy  old  'nd  so  powerful  feeble  that 
be  don't  know  nothin'. 

It  seems  that  in  the  spring  uv  '47 —  the 
year  that  Cy  Watson's  oldest  boy  wuz 
drownded  in  West  River —  there  come  along 
a  book-agent  sellin'  volyumes  'nd  tracks  f 'r 
the  diffusion  uv  knowledge,  'nd  havin'  got 
the  recommend  of  the  minister  'nd  uv  the 
selectmen,  he  done  an  all-fired  big  business 
in  our  part  uv  the  county.  His  name  wuz 
Lemuel  Higgins,  'nd  he  wuz  ez  likely  a  talker 
ez  I  ever  heerd,  barrin'  Lawyer  Conkey,  'nd 
everybody  allowed  that  when  Conkey  wuz 
247 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

round  he  talked  so  fast  that  the  town  pump 
'u'd  have  to  be  greased  every  twenty  minutes. 

One  of  the  first  uv  our  folks  that  this 
Lemuel  Higgins  struck  wuz  Leander  Hobart. 
Leander  had  jest  marr'd  one  uv  the  Peasley 
girls,  'nd  had  moved  into  the  old  homestead 
on  the  Plainville  road, —  old  Deacon  Hobart 
havin'  give  up  the  place  to  him,  the  other 
boys  havin'  moved  out  West  (like  a  lot  o' 
darned  fools  that  they  wuz ! ).  Leander  wuz 
feelin'  his  oats  jest  about  this  time,  'nd  nuthin' 
wuz  too  good  f 'r  him. 

"Hattie,"  sez  he,  "I  guess  I  '11  have  to 
lay  in  a  few  books  f 'r  readin'  in  the  winter 
time,  'nd  I  've  half  a  notion  to  subscribe  f 'r 
a  cyclopeedy.  Mr.  Higgins  here  says  they  're 
invalerable  in  a  family,  and  that  we  orter 
have  'em,  bein'  as  how  we  're  likely  to  have 
thefam'ly  bime  by." 

"Lor's  sakes,  Leander,  how  you  talk!" 
sez  Hattie,  blushin'  all  over,  ez  brides  allers 
does  to  heern  tell  uv  sich  things. 

Waal,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  Leander 

bargained  with  Mr.  Higgins  for  a  set  uv  them 

cyclopeedies,  'nd  he  signed  his  name  to  a 

long  printed   paper  that  showed  how  he 

248 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

agreed  to  take  a  cyclopeedy  oncet  in  so  of 
ten,  which  wuz  to  be  ez  often  ez  a  new  one 
uv  the  volyumes  wuz  printed.  A  cyclo 
peedy  is  n't  printed  all  at  oncet,  because 
that  would  make  it  cost  too  much;  conse- 
kently  the  man  that  gets  it  up  has  it  strung 
along  fur  apart,  so  as  to  hit  folks  oncet  every 
year  or  two,  and  gin'rally  about  harvest  time. 
So  Leander  kind  uv  liked  the  idee,  and  he 
signed  the  printed  paper  'nd  made  his  affi 
davit  to  it  afore  Jedge  Warner. 

The  fust  volyume  of  the  cyclopeedy  stood 
on  a  shelf  in  the  old  seckertary  in  the  settin'- 
room  about  four  months  before  they  had 
any  use  f  r  it.  One  night  'Squire  Turner's 
son  come  over  to  visit  Leander  'nd  Hattie, 
and  they  got  to  talkin'  about  apples,  'nd  the 
sort  uv  apples  that  wuz  the  best.  Leander 
allowed  that  the  Rhode  Island  greenin'  wuz 
the  best,  but  Hattie  and  the  Turner  boy 
stuck  up  f  r  the  Roxbury  russet,  until  at  last 
a  happy  idee  struck  Leander,  and  sez  he: 
"  We  '11  leave  it  to  the  cyclopeedy,  b'gosh! 
Whichever  one  the  cyclopeedy  sez  is  the 
best  will  settle  it." 

"But  you  can't  find  out  nothin'  'bout 
249 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

Roxbury  russets  nor  Rhode  Island  greenin's 
in  our  cyclopeedy,"  sez  Hattie. 

"Why  not,  I  'd  like  to  know?"  sez  Le- 
ander,  kind  uv  indignant  like. 

"'Cause  ours  hain't  got  down  to  the  R 
yet,"  sez  Hattie.  "All  ours  tells  about  is 
things  beginnin'  with  A." 

"Well,  ain't  we  talkin'  about  Apples?" 
sez  Leander.  "You  aggervate  me  terrible, 
Hattie,  by  insistin'  on  knowin'  what  you 
don't  know  nothin'  'bout." 

Leander  went  to  the  seckertary  'nd  took 
down  the  cyclopeedy  'nd  hunted  all  through 
it  f r  Apples,  but  all  he  could  find  wuz  "Ap 
ple —  See  Pomology." 

"How  in  thunder  kin  I  see  Pomology," 
sez  Leander,  "when  there  ain't  no  Pomol 
ogy  to  see  ?  Gol  durn  a  cyclopeedy,  any 
how!" 

And  he  put  the  volyume  back  onto  the 
shelf  'nd  never  sot  eyes  into  it  ag'in. 

That 's  the  way  the  thing  run  f  r  years 
'nd  years.  Leander  would  've  gin  up  the 
plaguy  bargain,  but  he  could  n't;  he  had 
signed  a  printed  paper  'nd  had  swore  to  it 
afore  a  justice  of  the  peace.  Higgins  would 
350 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

have  had  the  law  on  him  if  he  had  throwed 
up  the  trade. 

The  most  aggervatin'  feature  uv  it  all  wuz 
that  a  new  one  uv  them  cussid  cyclopeedies 
wuz  allus  sure  to  show  up  at  the  wrong 
time, —  when  Leander  wuz  hard  up  or  had 
jest  been  afflicted  some  way  or  other.  His 
barn  burnt  down  two  nights  afore  the  vol- 
yume  containin'  the  letter  B  arrived,  and  Le 
ander  needed  all  his  chink  to  pay  f  r  lumber, 
but  Higgins  sot  back  on  that  affidavit  and 
defied  the  life  out  uv  him. 

"Never  mind,  Leander,"  sez  his  wife, 
soothin'  like,  "it  's  a  good  book  to  have  in 
the  house,  anyhow,  now  that  we  've  got  a 
baby." 

"That's  so,"  sez  Leander,  "babies  does 
begin  with  B,  don't  it?" 

You  see  their  fust  baby  had  been  born; 
they  named  him  Peasley, —  Peasley  Hobart, 
—  after  Hattie's  folks.  So,  seein'  as  how  it 
wuz  payin'  f'r  a  book  that  told  about  babies, 
Leander  did  n't  begredge  that  five  dollars  so 
very  much  after  all, 

"Leander,"  sez  Hattieone  forenoon,  "that 
B  cyclopeedy  ain't  no  account.  There  ain't 
251 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

nothin'  in  it  about  babies  except '  See  Mater 
nity'!" 

"Waal,  I  '11  be  gosh  durned!"  sez  Lean- 
der.  That  wuz  all  he  said,  and  he  could  n't 
do  nothin'  at  all,  f 'r  that  book-agent,  Lemuel 
Higgins,  had  the  dead  wood  on  him, —  the 
mean,  sneakin'  critter! 

So  the  years  passed  on,  one  of  them  cyclo- 
peedies  showin'  up  now  'nd  then, — some 
times  every  two  years  'nd  sometimes  every 
four,  but  allus  at  a  time  when  Leander  found 
it  pesky  hard  to  give  up  a  fiver.  It  war  n't 
no  use  cussin'  Higgins;  Higgins  just  laffed 
when  Leander  allowed  that  the  cyclopeedy 
was  no  good  'nd  that  he  wuz  bein'  robbed. 
Meantime  Leander's  family  wuz  increasin' 
and  growin'.  Little  Sarey  had  the  hoopin' 
cough  dreadful  one  winter,  but  the  cyclo 
peedy  did  n't  help  out  at  all,  'cause  all  it  said 
wuz:  "Hoopin'  Cough  —  See  Whoopin' 
Cough" — and  uv  course  there  war  n't  no 
Whoopin'  Cough  to  see,  bein'  as  how  the 
W  had  n't  come  yet! 

Oncet  when  Hiram  wanted  to  dreen  the 
home  pasture,  he  went  to  the  cyclopeedy  to 
find  out  about  it,  but  all  he  diskivered  wuz: 
252 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

' '  Drain  —  See  Tile. "  This  wuz  in  1 859,  and 
the  cyclopeedy  had  only  got  down  to  G. 

The  cow  wuz  sick  with  lung  fever  one 
spell,  and  Leander  laid  her  dyin'  to  that 
cussid  cyclopeedy,  'cause  when  he  went  to 
readin'  'bout  cows  it  told  him  to  "See  Zo 
ology." 

But  what 's  the  use  uv  harrowin'  up  one's 
feelin's  talkin'  'nd  thinkin'  about  these  things  ? 
Leander  got  so  after  a  while  that  the  cyclo 
peedy  did  n't  worry  him  at  all :  he  grew  to 
look  at  it  ez  one  uv  the  crosses  that  human 
critters  has  to  bear  without  complainin' 
through  this  vale  uv  tears.  The  only  thing 
that  bothered  him  wuz  the  fear  that  mebbe 
he  would  n't  live  to  see  the  last  volyume, — 
to  tell  the  truth,  this  kind  uv  got  to  be  his 
hobby,  and  I  've  heern  him  talk  'bout  it 
many  a  time  settin'  round  the  stove  at 
the  tarvern  'nd  squirtin'  tobacco  juice  at 
the  sawdust  box.  His  wife,  Hattie,  passed 
away  with  the  yaller  janders  the  winter  W 
come,  and  all  that  seemed  to  reconcile  Le 
ander  to  survivin'  her  wuz  the  prospect  uv 
seein'  the  last  volyume  of  that  cyclopeedy. 
Lemuel  Higgins,  the  book-agent,  had  gone 


A    LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

to  his  everlastin'  punishment;  but  his  son, 
Hiram,  had  succeeded  to  his  father's  business 
'nd  continued  to  visit  the  folks  his  old  man 
had  roped  in.  By  this  time  Leander's  chil 
dren  had  growed  up;  all  on  'em  wuz  marr'd, 
and  there  wuz  numeris  grandchildren  to 
amuse  the  ol'  gentleman.  But  Leander 
wuz  n't  to  be  satisfied  with  the  common 
things  uv  airth;  he  did  n't  seem  to  take  no 
pleasure  in  his  grandchildren  like  most  men 
do;  his  mind  wuz  allers  sot  on  somethin' 
else, — for  hours  'nd  hours,  yes,  all  day  long, 
he  'd  set  out  on  the  front  stoop  lookin'  wist 
fully  up  the  road  for  that  book-agent  to  come 
along  with  a  cyclopeedy.  He  did  n't  want 
to  die  till  he  'd  got  all  the  cyclopeedies  his 
contract  called  for;  he  wanted  to  have  every 
thing  straightened  out  before  he  passed  away. 
When  —  oh,  how  well  I  recollect  it  — 
when  Y  come  along  he  wuz  so  overcome 
that  he  fell  over  in  a  fit  uv  paralysis,  'nd  the 
old  gentleman  never  got  over  it.  For  the 
next  three  years  he  drooped  'nd  pined,  and 
seemed  like  he  could  n't  hold  out  much 
longer.  Finally  he  had  to  take  to  his  bed, — 
he  was  so  old  'nd  feeble, — but  he  made  'em 
254 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

move  the  bed  up  ag'inst  the  winder  so  he 
could  watch  for  that  last  volyume  of  the  cy- 
clopeedy. 

The  end  come  one  balmy  day  in  the  spring 
uv  '87.  His  life  wuz  a-ebbin'  powerful  fast; 
the  minister  wuz  there,  'nd  me,  'nd  Dock 
Wilson,  'nd  Jedge  Baker,  'nd  most  uv  the 
fam'ly.  Lovin'  hands  smoothed  the  wrin 
kled  forehead  'nd  breshed  back  the  long, 
scant,  white  hair,  but  the  eyes  of  the  dyin' 
man  wuz  sot  upon  that  piece  uv  road  down 
which  the  cyclopeedy  man  allus  come. 

All  to  oncet  a  bright  'nd  joyful  look  come 
into  them  eyes,  'nd  ol'  Leander  riz  up  in  bed 
'nd  sez,  "  It 's  come!  " 

' '  What  is  it ,  Father  ? "  asked  his  daughter 
Sarey,  sobbin'  like. 

"Hush,"  says  the  minister,  solemnly; 
"he  sees  the  shinin'  gates  uv  the  Noo  Jeru- 
salum." 

' '  No,  no, "  cried  the  aged  man ;  "  it  is  the 
cyclopeedy  —  the  letter  Z  —  it 's  comin' !  " 

And,  sure  enough!  the  door  opened,  and 
in  walked  Higgins.  He  tottered  rather  than 
walked,  f 'r  he  had  growed  old  'nd  feeble  in 
his  wicked  perfession. 

255 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

"  Here  's  the  Z  cyclopeedy,  Mr.  Hobart," 
sez  Higgins. 

Leander  clutched  it;  he  hugged  it  to  his 
pantin'  bosom;  then  stealin'  one  pale  hand 
under  the  piller  he  drew  out  a  faded  bank 
note  'nd  gave  it  to  Higgins. 

"I  thank  Thee  for  this  boon,"  sez  Lean 
der,  rollin'  his  eyes  up  devoutly;  then  he 
gave  a  deep  sigh. 

"Hold  on,"  cried  Higgins,  excitedly, 
"you  've  made  a  mistake  —  it  is  n't  the 
last—" 

But  Leander  did  n't  hear  him  —  his  soul 
hed  fled  from  its  mortal  tenement  'nd  hed 
soared  rejoicin'  to  realms  uv  everlastin' 
bliss. 

"  He  is  no  more,"  sez  Dock  Wilson,  met 
aphorically. 

"Then  who  are  his  heirs?"  asked  that 
mean  critter  Higgins. 

"We  be,"  sez  the  family. 

"Do  you  conjointly  and  severally  ac 
knowledge  and  assume  the  obligation  of 
deceased  to  me  ?  "  he  asked  'em. 

"What  obligation?"  asked  Peasley  Ho 
bart,  stern  like. 

356 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

"Deceased  died  owin'  me  f'r  a  cyclo- 
peedy!"  sez  Higgins. 

"That  's  a  lie!"  sez  Peasley.  "We  all 
seen  him  pay  you  for  the  Z!  " 

"  But  there  's  another  one  to  come,"  sez 
Higgins. 

"Another?"  they  all  asked. 

"  Yes,  the  index!  "  sez  he. 

So  there  wuz,  and  I  '11  be  eternally  gol 
durned  if  he  ain't  a-suin'  the  estate  in  the 
probate  court  now  f'r  the  price  uv  it! 

1889. 


257 


DOCK  STEBBINS 


everybody  liked  Dock  Stebbins,  fur 
all  he  wuz  the  durnedest  critter  that 
ever  lived  to  play  jokes  on  folks!  Seems 
like  he  wuz  born  jokin'  'nd  kep'  it  up  all  his 
life.  Ol'  Mrs.  Stebbins  used  to  tell  how 
when  the  Dock  wuz  a  baby  he  used  to  wake 
her  up  haff  a  dozen  times  uv  a  night  cryin' 
like  he  wuz  hungry,  'nd  when  she  turnt 
over  in  bed  to  him  he  v/u'd  laff  'nd  coo  like 
he  wuz  sayin',  "No,  thank  ye  —  I  wuz  only 
foolin'! " 

His  mother  allus  thought  a  heap  uv  the 
Dock,  'nd  she  allus  put  up  with  his  jokes 
'nd  things  without  grumblin' ;  said  it  war  n't 
his  fault  that  he  wuz  so  full  uv  tricks  'nd 
funny  business;  kind  uv  took  the  responsi 
bility  uv  it  onto  herself,  because,  as  she  al 
lowed,  she  'd  been  to  a  circus  jest  afore  he 
wuz  born. 

261 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

Nothin'  tickled  the  Dock  more  'n  to  worry 
folks, —  not  in  a  mean  way,  but  jest  to  sort 
uv  bother  'em.  Used  to  hang  round  the 
post-office  'nd  pertend  to  have  fits, —  sakes 
alive !  but  how  that  scared  the  wimmin  folks. 
One  day  who  should  come  along  but  ol'  Sue 
Perkins;  Sue  wuz  suspicioned  uv  takin'  a 
nip  uv  likker  on  the  quiet  now  'nd  then,  but 
nobody  had  ever  ketched  her  at  it.  Wall,  the 
Dock  he  had  one  uv  his  fits  jest  as  Sue  hove 
in  sight,  'nd  Lem  Thompson  (who  stood 
in  with  Dock  in  all  his  deviltry)  leant  over 
Dock  while  he  wuz  wallerin'  'nd  pertendin' 
to  foam  at  the  mouth,  and  Lem  cried  out: 
"Nothink  will  fetch  him  out'n  this  turn  but 
a  drink  uv  brandy."  Sue,  who  wuz  as  kind- 
hearted  a'  old  maid  as  ever  super'ntended  a 
strawberry  festival,  whipped  a  bottle  out'n 
her  bag  'nd  says:  "Here  you  be,  Lem,  but 
don't  let  him  swaller  the  bottle."  Folks 
bothered  Sue  a  heap  'bout  this  joke  till 
she  moved  down  into  Texas  to  teach 
school. 

Dock  had  a  piece  uv  wood  'bout  two 
inches  long, —  maybe  three:  it  wuz  black 
'nd  stubby  'nd  looked  jest  like  the  butt  uv  a 
262 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

cigar.  Nobody  but  Dock  w'u'd  ever  hev 
thought  uv  sech  a  fool  thing,  but  Dock  used 
to  go  round  with  that  thing  in  his  mouth 
like  it  wuz  a  cigar,  and  when  he  'd  meet  a 
man  who  wuz  smokin'  he  'd  say:  "Excuse 
me,  but  will  you  please  to  gimme  a  light  ?  " 
Then  the  man  w'u'd  hand  over  his  cigar, 
and  Dock  w'u'd  plough  that  wood  stub  uv 
his'n  around  in  the  lighted  cigar  and  would 
pertend  to  puff  away  till  he  had  put  the  real 
cigar  out,  'nd  then  Dock  w'u'd  hand  the 
cigar  back,  sayin',  kind  uv  regretful  like: 
"You  don't  seem  to  have  much  uv  a  light 
there;  I  reckon  I  '11  wait  till  I  kin  git  a 
match."  You  kin  imagine  how  that  other 
feller's  cigar  tasted  when  he  lighted  it  ag'in. 
Dock  tried  it  on  me  oncet,  'nd  when  I  lighted 
up  ag'in  seemed  like  I  wuz  smokin'  a  piece 
uv  rope  or  a  liver-pad. 

One  time  Dock  'nd  Lem  Thompson  went 
over  to  Peory  on  the  railroad,  'nd  while 
they  wuz  settin'  in  the  car  in  come  two 
wimmin  'nd  set  in  the  seat  ahead  uv  'em. 
All  uv  a  suddint  Dock  nudged  Lem  'nd  says, 
jest  loud  enuff  fur  the  wimmin  to  hear:  "  I 
did  n't  git  round  till  after  it  wuz  over,  but 
263 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

I  never  see  sech  a  sight  as  that  baby's  ear 
wuz." 

Lem  wuz  onto  Dock's  methods,  'nd  he 
knew  there  wuz  sumthin'  ahead.  So  he 
says:  " Tough-lookin'  ear,  wuz  it?" 

"Wall,  I  should  remark,"  says  Dock. 
"You  see  it  wuz  like  this:  the  mother  had 
gone  out  into  the  back  yard  to  hang  some 
clo'es  onto  the  line,  'nd  she  laid  the  baby 
down  in  the  crib.  Baby  wa'n't  more  'n  six 
weeks  old, — helpless  little  critter  as  ever 
you  seen.  Wall,  all  to  oncet  the  mother 
heerd  the  baby  cryin',  but  bein'  busy  with 
them  clo'es  she  did  n't  mind  much.  The 
baby  kep'  cryin'  'nd  cryin',  'nd  at  last  the 
mother  come  back  into  the  house,  'nd  there 
she  found  a  big  rat  gnawin'  at  one  uv  the 
baby's  ears, — had  e't  it  nearly  off!  There 
lay  that  helpless  little  innocent,  cryin'  'nd 
writhin',  'nd  there  sat  that  rat  with  his  long 
tail,  nippin'  'nd  chewin'  at  one  uv  them  tiny 
coral  ears — oh,  it  wuz  offul!  " 

"Jest  imagine  the  feelinks  uv  the  mother ! " 
says  Lem,  sad  like. 

"Jest  imagine  the  feelinks  uv  the  baby," 
says  Dock.  "How  'd  you  like  to  be  lyin' 
264 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

helpless  in  a  crib  with  a  big  rat  gnawin' 
your  ear?" 

Wall,  all  this  conversation  wuz  fur  from 
pleasant  to  those  two  wimmin  in  the  front 
seat,  fur  wimmin  love  babies  'nd  hate  rats, 
you  know.  It  wuz  nuts  fur  Dock  'nd  Lem 
to  see  the  two  wimmin  squirm,  'nd  all  the 
way  to  Peory  they  did  n't  talk  about  nuthink 
but  snakes  'nd  spiders  'nd  mice  'nd  cater- 
pillers.  When  the  train  got  to  Peory  a 
gentleman  met  the  two  wimmin  'nd  says  to 
one  uv  'em:  "I  'm  'feered  the  trip  hain't 
done  you  much  good,  Lizzie,"  says  he. 
"Sakes  alive,  John,"  says  she,  "it  's  a 
wonder  we  hain't  dead,  for  we  've  been 
travellin'  forty  miles  with  a  real  live  Beadle 
dime  novvell! " 

'Nuther  trick  Dock  had  wuz  to  walk  'long 
the  street  behind  wimmin  'nd  tell  about  how 
his  sister  had  jest  lost  one  uv  her  diamond 
earrings  while  out  walkin'.  Jest  as  soon  as 
the  wimmin  heerd  this  they  'd  clap  their 
han's  up  to  their  ears  to  see  if  their  earrings 
wuz  all  right.  Dock  never  laffed  nor  let  on 
like  he  wuz  jokin',  but  jest  the  same  this 
sort  uv  thing  tickled  him  nearly  to  de'th. 
265 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

Dock  went  up  to  Chicago  with  Jedge 
Craig  oncet,  'nd  when  they  come  back  the 
jedge  said  he  'd  never  had  such  an  offul  time 
in  all  his  born  days.  Said  that  Dock  bought 
a  fool  Mother  Goose  book  to  read  in  the 
hoss-cars  jest  to  queer  folks ;  would  set  in  a 
hoss-car  lookin'  at  the  pictur's  'nd  readin'  the 
verses  'nd  laffm'  like  it  wuz  all  new  to  him 
'nd  like  he  wuz  a  child.  Everybody  sized 
him  up  for  a'  ejeot,  'nd  the  wimmin  folks 
shook  their  heads  'nd  said  it  was  orful  fur 
so  fine  a  lookin'  feller  to  be  such  a  torn  fool. 
'Nuther  thing  Dock  did  wuz  to  git  hold  uv 
a  bad  quarter  'nd  give  it  to  a  beggar,  'nd 
then  foller  the  beggar  into  a  saloon  'nd  git 
him  arrested  for  tryin'  to  pass  counterf'it 
money.  I  reckon  that  if  Dock  had  stayed 
in  Chicago  a  week  he  'd  have  had  everybody 
crazy. 

No,  I  don't  know  how  he  come  to  be  a 
medikil  man.  He  told  me  oncet  that  when 
he  found  out  that  he  wuz  n't  good  for  any- 
think  he  concluded  he  'd  be  a  doctor;  but  I 
reckon  that  wuz  one  uv  his  jokes.  He  did  n't 
have  much  uv  a  practice :  he  wuz  too  yumor- 
ous  to  suit  most  invalids  'nd  sick  folks.  We 
266 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

had  him  tend  our  boy  Sam  jest  oncet  when 
Sam  wuz  comin'  down  with  the  measles. 
He  looked  at  Sam's  tongue  'nd  felt  his  pulse 
'nd  said  he  'd  leave  a  pill  for  Sam  to  take 
afore  goin'  to  bed. 

"How  shell  we  administer  the  pill?" 
asked  my  wife. 

"Wall,"  says  Dock,  "the  best  way  to  do 
is  to  git  the  boy  down  on  the  floor  'nd  hold 
his  mouth  open  'nd  gag  him  till  he  swallers 
the  pill.  After  the  pill  gits  into  his  system 
it  will  explode  in  about  ten  minnits,  'nd  then 
the  boy  will  feel  better." 

This  wuz  cheerful  news  for  the  boy.  No 
human  power  c'u'd  ha'  got  that  pill  into 
Sam.  We  never  solicited  Dock's  perfesh- 
ional  services  ag'in. 

One  time  Dock  'nd  Lem  Thompson  drove 
over  to  Knoxville  to  help  Dock  Parsons  cut 
a  man's  leg  off.  About  four  miles  out  uv 
town  'nd  right  in  the  middle  uv  the  hot 
peraroor  they  met  Moses  Baker's  oldest  boy 
trudgin'  along  with  a  basket  uv  eggs.  The 
Dock  whoaed  his  hoss  'nd  called  to  the  boy, — 

"Where  be  you  goin'  with  them  eggs?" 
says  he. 

267 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

"  Coin'  to  town  to  sell  'em,"  says  the  boy. 

"  How  much  a  dozen  ?  "  asked  the  Dock. 

"  'Bout  ten  cents,  I  reckon,"  says  the  boy. 

' '  Putty  likely-lookin'  eggs, "  says  the  Dock ; 
'nd  he  handed  the  lines  over  to  Lem,  'nd  got 
out'n  the  buggy. 

"  How  many  hev  you  got  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Ten  dozen,"  says  the  boy. 

"Git  out!"  says  Dock.  "There  hain't 
no  ten  dozen  eggs  in  that  basket!" 

"Yes,  there  is,"  says  the  boy,  "fur  I 
counted  'em  myself." 

The  Dock  allowed  that  he  wuz  n't  goin' 
to  take  nobody's  count  on  eggs;  so  he  got 
that  fool  boy  to  stan'  there  in  the  middle  uv 
that  hot  peraroor,  claspin'  his  two  hands 
together,  while  he,  the  Dock,  counted  them 
eggs  out'n  the  basket  one  by  one  into  the 
boy's  arms.  Ten  dozen  eggs  is  a  heap; 
you  kin  imagine,  maybe,  how  that  boy 
looked  with  his  arms  full  uv  eggs !  When 
the  Dock  had  got  about  nine  dozen  counted 
out  he  stopped  all  uv  a  suddint  'nd  said, 
"Wall,  come  to  think  on  't,  I  reckon  I 
don't  want  no  eggs  to-day,  but  I  'm  jest  as 
much  obleeged  to  you  fur  yer  trubble." 
268 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

And  so  he  jumped  back  into  the  buggy  'nd 
drove  off. 

Now,  maybe  that  fool  boy  wuz  n't  in  a 
peck  uv  trubble!  There  he  stood  in  the 
middle  uv  that  hot  —  that  all-fired  hot  — 
peraroor  with  his  arms  full  uv  eggs.  What 
wuz  there  fur  him  to  do  ?  He  wuz  afraid 
to  move,  lest  he  should  break  them  eggs; 
yet  the  longer  he  stood  there  the  less  chance 
there  wuz  uv  the  warm  weather  improvin' 
the  eggs. 

Along  in  the  summer  of  '78  the  fever  broke 
out  down  South,  'nd  one  day  Dock  made  up 
his  mind  that  as  bizness  wuz  n't  none  too 
good  at  home  he  'd  go  down  South  'nd  see 
what  he  could  do  there.  That  wuz  jest  like 
one  of  Dock's  fool  notions,  we  all  said.  But 
he  went.  In  about  six  weeks  along  come  a 
telegraph  sayin'  that  Dock  wuz  dead, —  he  'd 
died  uv  the  fever.  The  minister  went  up  to 
the  homestead  'nd  broke  the  news  gentle 
like  to  Dock's  mother;  but,  bless  you!  she 
did  n't  believe  it  —  she  would  n't  believe  it. 
She  said  it  wuz  one  uv  Dock's  jokes;  she 
did  n't  blame  him,  nuther  —  it  wuz  her  fault, 
she  allowed,  that  Dock  wuz  allus  that  way 
269 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

about  makin'  fun  uv  life  'nd  death.  No,  sir; 
she  never  believed  that  Dock  wuz  dead,  but 
she  allus  talked  like  he  might  come  in  any 
minnit;  and  there  wuz  allus  his  old  place  set 
fur  him  at  the  table  'nd  nuthin'  wuz  disturbed 
in  his  little  room  up-stairs.  And  so  five 
years  slipped  by  'nd  no  Dock  come  back, 
'nd  there  wuz  no  tidin's  uv  him.  Uv  course, 
the  rest  uv  us  knew;  but  his  mother  —  oh, 
no,  she  never  would  believe  it. 

At  last  the  old  lady  fell  sick,  and  the  doctor 
said  she  could  n't  hold  out  long,  she  wuz  so 
old  'nd  feeble.  The  minister  who  wuz  there 
said  that  she  seemed  to  sleep  from  the  evenin' 
uv  this  life  into  the  mornin'  uv  the  next.  Jest 
afore  the  last  she  kind  uv  raised  up  in  bed 
and  cried  out  like  she  saw  sumthin'  that  she 
loved,  and  she  held  out  her  arms  like  there 
wuz  some  one  standin'  in  the  doorway. 
Then  they  asked  her  what  the  matter  wuz, 
and  she  says,  joyful  like :  "  He 's  come  back, 
and  there  he  Stan's  jest  as  he  used  ter :  I  knew 
he  wuz  only  jokin'!" 

They  looked,  but  they  saw  nuthin';  'nd 
when  they  went  to  her  she  wuz  dead. 

1888. 

270 


€lje  fairies  of  fegtf) 


THE    FAIRIES   OF   PESTH1 


AN  old  poet  walked  alone  in  a  quiet  val 
ley.  His  heart  was  heavy,  and  the 
voices  of  Nature  consoled  him.  His  life  had 
been  a  lonely  and  sad  one.  Many  years  ago 
a  great  grief  fell  upon  him,  and  it  took  away 
all  his  joy  and  all  his  ambition.  It  was  be 
cause  he  brooded  over  his  sorrow,  and  be 
cause  he  was  always  faithful  to  a  memory, 
that  the  townspeople  deemed  him  a  strange 
old  poet;  but  they  loved  him  and  they  loved 
his  songs, — in  his  life  and  in  his  songs  there 
was  a  gentleness,  a  sweetness,  a  pathos  that 
touched  every  heart.  "The  strange,  the  dear 
old  poet,"  they  called  him. 

Evening  was  coming  on.  The  birds  made 
no  noise;  only  the  whip-poor-will  repeated 
over  and  over  again  its  melancholy  refrain  in 
the  marsh  beyond  the  meadow.  The  brook 

1  The  music  arranged  by  Mr.  Theodore  Thomas. 
273 


A   LITTLE   BOOK  OF 

ran  slowly,  and  its  voice  was  so  hushed  and 
tiny  that  you  might  have  thought  that  it  was 
saying  its  prayers  before  going  to  bed. 

The  old  poet  came  to  the  three  lindens. 
This  was  a  spot  he  loved,  it  was  so  far  from 
the  noise  of  the  town.  The  grass  under  the 
lindens  was  fresh  and  velvety.  The  air  was 
full  of  fragrance,  for  here  amid  the  grass  grew 
violets  and  daisies  and  buttercups  and  other 
modest  wild-flowers.  Under  the  lindens 
stood  old  Leeza,  the  witchwife. 

"Take  this,"  said  the  poet  to  old  Leeza, 
the  witchwife;  and  he  gave  her  a  silver 
piece. 

"  You  are  good  to  me,  master  poet,"  said 
the  witchwife.  "You  have  always  been 
good  to  me.  I  do  not  forget,  master  poet, 
I  do  not  forget." 

"Why  do  you  speak  so  strangely  ?  "  asked 
the  old  poet.  "You  mean  more  than  you 
say.  Do  not  jest  with  me ;  my  heart  is  heavy 
with  sorrow." 

"I  do  not  jest,"  answered  the  witchwife. 

"I  will  show  you  a  strange  thing.     Do  as 

I  bid  you;  tarry  here  under  the  lindens,  and 

when  the  moon  rises,  the  Seven  Crickets  will 

274 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

chirp  thrice;  then  the  Raven  will  fly  into  the 
west,  and  you  will  see  wonderful  things, 
and  beautiful  things  you  will  hear." 

Saying  this  much,  old  Leeza,  the  witch- 
wife,  stole  away,  and  the  poet  marvelled  at 
her  words.  He  had  heard  the  townspeople 
say  that  old  Leeza  was  full  of  dark  thoughts 
and  of  evil  deeds,  but  he  did  not  heed  these 
stories. 

"They  say  the  same  of  me,  perhaps,"  he 
thought.  "I  will  tarry  here  beneath  the 
three  lindens  and  see  what  may  come  of 
this  whereof  the  witchwife  spake." 

The  old  poet  sat  amid  the  grass  at  the  foot 
of  the  three  lindens,  and  darkness  fell  around 
him.  He  could  see  the  lights  in  the  town 
away  off;  they  twinkled  like  the  stars  that 
studded  the  sky.  The  whip-poor-will  told 
his  story  over  and  over  again  in  the  marsh 
beyond  the  meadow,  and  the  brook  tossed 
and  talked  in  its  sleep,  for  it  had  played  too 
hard  that  day. 

"The  moon  is  rising,"  said  the  old  poet. 
"Now  we  shall  see." 

The  moon  peeped  over  the  tops  of  the  far- 
off  hills.    She  wondered  whether  the  world 
275 


A    LITTLE    BOOK   OF 

was  fast  asleep.  She  peeped  again.  There 
could  be  no  doubt ;  the  world  was  fast  asleep, 
— at  least  so  thought  the  dear  old  moon.  So 
she  stepped  boldly  up  from  behind  the  dis 
tant  hills.  The  stars  were  glad  that  she 
came,  for  she  was  indeed  a  merry  old  moon. 

The  Seven  Crickets  lived  in  the  hedge. 
They  were  brothers,  and  they  made  famous 
music.  When  they  saw  the  moon  in  the 
sky  they  sang  "chirp-chirp,  chirp-chirp, 
chirp-chirp,"  three  times,  just  as  old  Leeza, 
the  witchwife,  said  they  would. 

"  Whir-r-r!  "  It  was  the  Raven  flying  out 
of  the  oak-tree  into  the  west.  This,  too, 
was  what  the  old  witchwife  had  foretold. 
"Whir-r-r  "  went  the  two  black  wings,  and 
then  it  seemed  as  if  the  Raven  melted  into 
the  night.  Now,  this  was  strange  enough, 
but  what  followed  was  stranger  still. 

Hardly  had  the  Raven  flown  away,  when 
out  from  their  habitations  in  the  moss,  the 
flowers,  and  the  grass  trooped  a  legion  of 
fairies, — yes,  right  there  before  the  old  poet's 
eyes  appeared,  as  if  by  magic,  a  mighty  troop 
of  the  dearest  little  fays  in  all  the  world. 

Each  of  these  fairies  was  about  the  height 
276 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

of  a  cambric  needle.  The  lady  fairies  were, 
of  course,  not  so  tall  as  the  gentleman  fair 
ies,  but  all  were  of  quite  as  comely  figure 
as  you  could  expect  to  find  even  among  real 
folk.  They  were  quaintly  dressed;  the  la 
dies  wearing  quilted  silk  gowns  and  broad 
brim  hats  with  tiny  feathers  in  them,  and 
the  gentlemen  wearing  curious  little  knick 
erbockers,  with  silk  coats,  white  hose,  ruf 
fled  shirts,  and  dainty  cocked  hats. 

"If  the  witchwife  had  not  foretold  it  I 
should  say  that  I  dreamed,"  thought  the  old 
poet.  But  he  was  not  frightened.  He  had 
never  harmed  the  fairies,  therefore  he  feared 
no  evil  from  them. 

One  of  the  fairies  was  taller  than  the  rest, 
and  she  was  much  more  richly  attired.  It 
was  not  her  crown  alone  that  showed  her 
to  be  the  queen.  The  others  made  obei 
sance  to  her  as  she  passed  through  the  midst 
of  them  from  her  home  in  the  bunch  of  red 
clover.  Four  dainty  pages  preceded  her, 
carrying  a  silver  web  which  had  been  spun 
by  a  black-and-yellow  garden  spider  of  great 
renown.  This  silver  web  the  four  pages 
spread  carefully  over  a  violet  leaf,  and  there- 
277 


A    LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

upon  the  queen  sat  down.     And  when  she 
was  seated  the  queen  sang  this  little  song: 

"  From  the  land  of  murk  and  mist 

Fairy  folk  are  coming 
To  the  mead  the  dew  has  kissed, 
And  they  dance  where'er  they  list 

To  the  cricket's  thrumming. 

"Circling  here  and  circling  there, 
Light  as  thought  and  free  as  air, 
Hear  them  cry,  '  Oho,  oho,' 
As  they  round  the  rosey  go. 

"  Appleblossom,  Summerdew, 

Thistleblow,  and  Ganderfeather! 
Join  the  airy  fairy  crew 

Dancing  on  the  sward  together! 
Till  the  cock  on  yonder  steeple 

Gives  all  faery  lusty  warning, 
Sing  and  dance,  my  little  people, — 

Dance  and  sing  '  Oho  '  till  morning  !  " 

The  four  little  fairies  the  queen  called  to 
must  have  been  loitering.  But  now  they 
came  scampering  up, —  Ganderfeather  be 
hind  the  others,  for  he  was  a  very  fat  and 
presumably  a  very  lazy  little  fairy. 

"The  elves  will  be  here  presently,"  said 
278 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

the  queen,  "and  then,  little  folk,  you  shall 
dance  to  your  heart's  content.  Dance  your 
prettiest  to-night,  for  the  good  old  poet  is 
watching  you." 

"Ah,  little  queen,"  cried  the  old  poet, 
"you  see  me,  then?  I  thought  to  watch 
your  revels  unbeknown  to  you.  But  I 
meant  you  no  disrespect, —  indeed,  I  meant 
you  none,  for  surely  no  one  ever  loved  the 
little  folk  more  than  I." 

"We  know  you  love  us,  good  old  poet," 
said  the  little  fairy  queen,  "and  this  night 
shall  give  you  great  joy  and  bring  you  into 
wondrous  fame." 

These  were  words  of  which  the  old  poet 
knew  not  the  meaning;  but  we,  who  live 
these  many  years  after  he  has  fallen  asleep, 
—  we  know  the  meaning  of  them. 

Then,  surely  enough,  the  elves  came  troop 
ing  along.  They  lived  in  the  further  mea 
dow,  else  they  had  come  sooner.  They  were 
somewhat  larger  than  the  fairies,  yet  they 
were  very  tiny  and  very  delicate  creatures. 
The  elf  prince  had  long  flaxen  curls,  and  he 
was  arrayed  in  a  wonderful  suit  of  damask 
web,  at  the  manufacture  of  which  seventy- 
279 


A   LITTLE   BOOK   OF 

seven  silkworms  had  labored  for  seventy- 
seven  days,  receiving  in  payment  therefor 
as  many  mulberry  leaves  as  seven  blue 
beetles  could  carry  and  stow  in  seven  times 
seven  sunny  days.  At  his  side  the  elf  prince 
wore  a  sword  made  of  the  sting  of  a  yellow- 
jacket,  and  the  hilt  of  this  sword  was  studded 
with  the  eyes  of  unhatched  dragon-flies, 
these  brighter  and  more  precious  than  the 
most  costly  diamonds. 

The  elf  prince  sat  beside  the  fairy  queen. 
The  other  elves  capered  around  among  the 
fairies.  The  dancing  sward  was  very  light, 
for  a  thousand  and  ten  glowworms  came 
from  the  marsh  and  hung  their  beautiful 
lamps  over  the  spot  where  the  little  folk 
were  assembled.  If  the  moon  and  the  stars 
were  jealous  of  that  soft,  mellow  light,  they 
had  good  reason  to  be. 

The  fairies  and  elves  circled  around  in 
lively  fashion.  Their  favorite  dance  was  the 
ring-round-a-rosey  which  many  children 
nowadays  dance.  But  they  had  other  mea 
sures,  too,  and  they  danced  them  very  pret 
tily. 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  old  poet,  "  I  wish  that 
280 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

I  had  my  violin  here,  for  then  I  would  make 
merry  music  for  you." 

The  fairy  queen  laughed.  "We  have 
music  of  our  own,"  she  said,  "and  it  is 
much  more  beautiful  than  even  you,  dear 
old  poet,  could  make." 

Then,  at  the  queen's  command,  each  gen 
tleman  elf  offered  his  arm  to  a  lady  fairy, 
and  each  gentleman  fairy  offered  his  arm  to 
a  lady  elf,  and  so,  all  being  provided  with 
partners,  these  little  people  took  their  places 
for  a  waltz.  The  fairy  queen  and  the  elf 
prince  were  the  only  ones  that  did  not  dance ; 
they  sat  side  by  side  on  the  violet  leaf  and 
watched  the  others.  The  hoptoad  was  floor 
manager;  the  green  burdock  badge  on  his 
breast  showed  that. 

"Mind  where  you  go  —  don't  jostle  each 
other,"  cried  the  hoptoad,  for  he  was  an  ex 
ceedingly  methodical  fellow,  despite  his  habit 
of  jumping  at  conclusions. 

Then,  when  all  was  ready,  the  Seven  Crick 
ets  went  "chirp-chirp,  chirp-chirp,  chirp- 
chirp,"  three  times,  and  away  flew  that  host 
of  little  fairies  and  little  elves  in  the  daintiest 
waltz  imaginable:  — 

281 


A    LITTLE    BOOK    OF 
. Allegretto  moderate.     ______       / ^.      p. 


The  old  poet  was  delighted.  Never  before 
had  he  seen  such  a  sight;  never  before  had 
he  heard  so  sweet  music.  Round  and  round 
whirled  the  sprite  dancers ;  the  thousand  and 
ten  glowworms  caught  the  rhythm  of  the 
music  that  floated  up  to  them,  and  they 
swung  their  lamps  to  and  fro  in  time  with 
the  fairy  waltz.  The  plumes  in  the  hats  of 
the  cunning  little  ladies  nodded  hither  and 
thither,  and  the  tiny  swords  of  the  cunning 
little  gentlemen  bobbed  this  way  and  that 
as  the  throng  of  dancers  swept  now  here, 
now  there.  With  one  tiny  foot,  upon  which 
she  wore  a  lovely  shoe  made  of  a  tanned 
flea's  hide,  the  fairy  queen  beat  time,  yet  she 
heard  every  word  which  the  gallant  elf  prince 
282 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

said.  So,  with  the  fairy  queen  blushing,  the 
mellow  lamps  swaying,  the  elf  prince  woo 
ing,  and  the  throng  of  little  folk  dancing 
hither  and  thither,  the  fairy  music  went  on 
and  on:  — 


"Tell  me,  my  fairy  queen,"  cried  the  old 
poet,  "  whence  comes  this  fairy  music  which 
I  hear  ?  The  Seven  Crickets  in  the  hedge  are 
still,  the  birds  sleep  in  their  nests,  the  brook 
dreams  of  the  mountain  home  it  stole  away 
from  yester  morning.  Tell  me,  therefore, 
whence  comes  this  wondrous  fairy  music, 
283 


A   LITTLE  BOOK   OF 


and  show  me  the  strange  musicians  that 
make  it." 


"  Look  to  the  grass  and  the  flowers,"  said 
the  fairy  queen.  "In  every  blade  and  in 
every  bud  lie  hidden  notes  of  fairy  music. 
Each  violet  and  daisy  and  buttercup, — every 
modest  wild-flower  (no  matter  how  hidden) 
gives  glad  response  to  the  tinkle  of  fairy  feet. 
284 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

Dancing  daintily  over  this  quiet  sward  where 
flowers  dot  the  green,  my  little  people  strike 
here  and  there  and  everywhere  the  keys 
which  give  forth  the  harmonies  you  hear." 

Long  marvelled  the  old  poet.  He  forgot 
his  sorrow,  for  the  fairy  music  stole  into  his 
heart  and  soothed  the  wound  there.  The 
fairy  host  swept  round  and  round,  and  the 
fairy  music  went  on  and  on. 


^•**  vT*3 


285 


A    LITTLE    BOOK   OF 

"Why  may  I  not  dance?"  asked  a  pip 
ing  voice.  "  Please,  dear  queen,  may  I  not 
dance,  too?" 

It  was  the  little  hunchback  that  spake, — 
the  little  hunchback  fairy  who,  with  wistful 
eyes,  had  been  watching  the  merry  throng 
whirl  round  and  round. 

"Dear  child,  thou  canst  not  dance,"  said 
the  fairy  queen,  tenderly;  "thy  little  limbs 
are  weak.  Come,  sit  thou  at  my  feet,  and 
let  me  smooth  thy  fair  curls  and  stroke  thy 
pale  cheeks." 

"Believe  me,  dear  queen,"  persisted  the 
little  hunchback,  "I  can  dance,  and  quite 
prettily,  too.  Many  a  time  while  the  others 
made  merry  here  I  have  stolen  away  by 
myself  to  the  brookside  and  danced  alone 
in  the  moonlight, — alone  with  my  shadow. 
The  violets  are  thickest  there.  'Let  thy 
halting  feet  fall  upon  us,  Little  Sorrowful,' 
they  whispered,  '  and  we  shall  make  music 
for  thee.'  So  there  I  danced,  and  the  vio 
lets  sang  their  songs  for  me.  I  could  hear 
the  others  making  merry  far  away,  but  I 
was  merry,  too;  for  I,  too,  danced,  and 
there  was  none  to  laugh." 
286 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

"  If  you  would  like  it,  Little  Sorrowful," 
said  the  elf  prince,  "  I  will  dance  with  you." 

"No,  brave  prince,"  answered  the  little 
hunchback,  "for  that  would  weary  you. 
My  crutch  is  stout,  and  it  has  danced  with 
me  before.  You  will  say  that  we  dance 
very  prettily, — my  crutch  and  I, — and  you 
will  not  laugh,  I  know." 

Then  the  queen  smiled  sadly;  she  loved 
the  little  hunchback  and  she  pitied  her. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  wish,"  said  the  queen. 
The  little  hunchback  was  overjoyed. 

"  I  have  to  catch  the  time,  you  see,"  said 
she,  and  she  tapped  her  crutch  and  swung 
one  little  shrunken  foot  till  her  body  fell  into 
the  rhythm  of  the  waltz. 

Far  daintier  than  the  others  did  the  little 
hunchback  dance;  now  one  tiny  foot  and 
now  the  other  tinkled  on  the  flowers,  and 
the  point  of  the  little  crutch  fell  here  and 
there  like  a  tear.  And  as  she  danced,  there 
crept  into  the  fairy  music  a  tenderer  cadence, 
for  (I  know  not  why)  the  little  hunchback 
danced  ever  on  the  violets,  and  their  re 
sponses  were  full  of  the  music  of  tears. 
There  was  a  strange  pathos  in  the  little 
287 


A    LITTLE   BOOK    OF 

creature's  grace;  she  did  not  weary  of  the 
dance :  her  cheeks  flushed,  and  her  eyes  grew 
fuller,  and  there  was  a  wondrous  light  in 
them.  And  as  the  little  hunchback  danced, 
the  others  forgot  her  limp  and  felt  only  the 
heart-cry  in  the  little  hunchback's  merri 
ment  and  in  the  music  of  the  voiceful  violets. 


Now  all  this  saw  the  old  poet,  and  all  this 
wondrously  beautiful  music  he  heard.  And 
as  he  heard  and  saw  these  things,  he  thought 
of  the  pale  face,  the  weary  eyes,  and  the 
tired  little  body  that  slept  forever  now.  He 
thought  of  the  voice  that  had  tried  to  be 
cheerful  for  his  sake,  of  the  thin,  patient  little 
288 


PROFITABLE  TALES 

hands  that  had  loved  to  do  his  bidding,  of 
the  halting  little  feet  that  had  hastened  to 
his  calling. 

"  Is  it  thy  spirit,  O  my  love  ?  "  he  wailed, 
"Is  it  thy  spirit,  O  dear,  dead  love  ? " 

A  mist  came  before  his  eyes,  and  his  heart 
gave  a  great  cry. 

But  the  fairy  dance  went  on  and  on.  The 
others  swept  to  and  fro  and  round  and  round, 
but  the  little  hunchback  danced  always  on 
the  violets,  and  through  the  other  music 
there  could  be  plainly  heard,  as  it  crept  in 
and  out,  the  mournful  cadence  of  those  ten 
derer  flowers. 

And,  with  the  music  and  the  dancing,  the 
night  faded  into  morning.  And  all  at  once 
the  music  ceased  and  the  little  folk  could  be 
seen  no  more.  The  birds  came  from  their 
nests,  the  brook  began  to  bestir  himself,  and 
the  breath  of  the  new-born  day  called  upon 
all  in  that  quiet  valley  to  awaken. 

So  many  years  have  passed  since  the  old 
poet,  sitting  under  the  three  lindens  half  a 
league  the  other  side  of  Pesth,  saw  the  fairies 
dance  and  heard  the  fairy  music, —  so  many 
years  have  passed  since  then,  that  had  the 
289 


PROFITABLE   TALES 

old  poet  not  left  us  an  echo  of  that  fairy 
waltz  there  would  be  none  now  to  believe 
the  story  I  tell. 


Who  knows  but  that  this  very  night  the 
elves  and  the  fairies  will  dance  in  the  quiet 
valley;  that  Little  Sorrowful  will  tinkle  her 
maimed  feet  upon  the  singing  violets,  and 
that  the  little  folk  will  illustrate  in  their 
revels,  through  which  a  tone  of  sadness 
steals,  the  comedy  and  pathos  of  our  lives  ? 
Perhaps  no  one  shall  see,  perhaps  no  one 
else  ever  did  see,  these  fairy  people  dance 
their  pretty  dances ;  but  we  who  have  heard 
old  Robert  Volkmann's  waltz  know  full 
well  that  he  at  least  saw  that  strange  sight 
and  heard  that  wondrous  music. 

And  you  will  know  so,  too,  when  you 
have  read  this  true  story  and  heard  old  Volk 
mann's  claim  to  immortality. 

1887. 


290 


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